Archive of Our Own

“—fuck, we’re not going to make it.” Osamu’s hand is in his. “Atsumu!”

Atsumu feels like he’s underwater, his brother’s voice filtering out like light across a stream, miles and miles away. Above them, Namikira is a beast in the water, its pincer claws striking Vulpis Empress again, a bellowing roar following its attack.

“Come on!” Osamu screams at him, and there are fingers digging into the side of his neck, releasing the stupid clunky helmet from his face, and suddenly he can breathe again.

He’s never seen Osamu’s face like this, wild and terrified, bathed in the blinking red light of danger alerts. He dimly notes that there’s a chunk taken out of Osamu’s helmet on the left side, and it exposes more than half of his face.

There’s a shiny streak of blood dribbling down Osamu’s face. Atsumu thinks. Why does he look so scared?

“Are you alright?” Osamu is asking him, and he says some bullshit about his leg he can barely remember while ripping himself out of his rig. All he can remember from this moment is Osamu’s bony knuckles crushing into his jaw and the world turning upside down as he’s thrown aggressively towards the left.

Osamu is carrying him, he barely registers. Osamu is strapping him into an escape pod (an escape pod?) and Osamu is growling something into his mic.

“—alive, fuck you all.” He catches the end of Osamu’s tirade, and then ocean winds crash into his face and he has the sudden realisation that he is in an escape pod and Osamu is not. The other escape pod was taken out by Namikira earlier when it ripped out the roof of the conn-pod, Osamu knows this. Osamu knows-

No. He tries to say, the words stuck in his through. Samu, stop. Osamu, don’t do this. Osamu, Osamu, Osamu-

“Tell Rintarou I love him. I’m so fucking sorry, Atsumu,” Osamu says instead. And this isn’t what he wants to hear, Osamu wouldn’t think of doing this to him, Osamu can’t do this to him, can he?

Fuck you. Atsumu snarls back in his mind, and knows by the way Osamu flinches that he hears him even if they’re not connected by the neural link anymore. Disconnected from the neural link and connected by years and years of memories and mutual trust, Atsumu has never felt so far away from his brother before.

The pod doors are closing and Atsumu claws at them desperately. Osamu can’t pull this shit on him, he doesn’t know what he’ll do without his brother, he can’t live without-

“Tsumu, I love you. Atsumu, you have to—”

The pod doors slam shut, cutting off whatever Osamu was about to say. Atsumu screams in frustration as he scrabbles helplessly against the smooth surface.

There’s not even a trace of remorse in his face when Osamu slams his hand into the eject button and Atsumu blurs away from his brother, his twin, his co-pilot.

The pod slams into the waves at breakneck speeds, and the last thing Atsumu thinks before it all goes dark is that fucking bastard.

An hour later, the helicopters find him still passed out in the floating pod, twenty miles away from shore and two miles of kaiju blue from the wreckage of Vulpis Empress. Namikira had managed to breach the miracle mile before being gored to death by Eagle Victory, pilots Ushijima and Shirabu claiming a new tally in their books.

They lift him out of his pod and drag what remains of their jaeger back to the shatterdome all according to procedure. No less, no more, exactly what it said on the guidelines.

Six days later, Atsumu wakes up alone in a hospital room. He carefully turns his head ninety degrees to the left, looking at the unoccupied cot next to him, its sheets neatly tucked in without disturbance. Osamu always stayed on his left.

Six days ago, Osamu died and left Atsumu with this: Atsumu, you have to—

“What do I have to do, Samu?” He asks an empty hospital bed. All that echos back is silence.

After he woke up, the first thing he said to a living person was “What happened to my jaeger.”

It wasn’t a question, because he knew there was no way, with a missing arm, conn-pod, and pilot, Vulpis Empress was ever going to see the light of day again. They told him the nuclear core had overheated and melted down on itself after Namikira, which apparently had spit acidic enough to make a chemist go insane, slobbered all over it.

There’s a nagging voice inside his brain, which almost doesn’t sound like Osamu if Atsumu tries really, really hard. It’s always been there, a side effect of having grown up with each other and having been in each other’s minds, but now that Osamu’s not there to actually tell him off, the buzzing in his head goes straight from bees at a picnic to a full-blown angry hornets’ nest.

The voice tells him that means there are two options. Either Osamu burned to death inside the cockpit when the core overheated, or he jumped out of the gaping hole and drowned. Of course, this doesn’t rule out the possibility of him having died upon impact if he jumped, or him getting taken out by a stray piece of debris, or him having been melted down by Namikira’s apparently acidic drool.

Turns out there are way more than two options, Atsumu really doesn’t know anymore. There are a million and one ways his brother could have died and Atsumu has no way of ever knowing because he was passed out floating away in an escape pod instead of at Osamu’s side like he should have been.

There are a lot of ways to die, he finds, but only one way to live.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but being told that whatever remains of Vulpis Empress was going to be taken apart and used for a new jaeger felt like a slap to the face anyways.

Sakusa Kiyoomi. They whisper in his ear. He’s the one in charge of the new jaeger project.

He’s your age. His nurse says. A young genius who worked on the underwater function of Monsoon Prophet.

He’s probably going to be head of J-Tech in the future. Ginjima, who had been on the maintenance team for Vulpis, answers apologetically. I’m sorry about Vulpis, Atsumu.

He’s a bit of an asshole, but that bad if you don’t piss him off. Kuroo shrugs at him across the table at the canteen, carefully hiding his sympathy. Really, I think he’s just bad at socialising.

After another disastrous session with Dr. Kita, in which Osamu is unfortunately brought up, Atsumu decides he’s in a foul enough mood to meet the guy who’s taking his jaeger apart.

He finds the man himself in a small room in the jaeger loading area, pouring over a large set of blueprints. The man makes no move to acknowledge Atsumu even as he drags a chair over noisily to seat himself, and Atsumu decides that two can play this game.

He has nothing to do now that he’s unofficially released from his pilot duties, so Atsumu settles for whistling loudly as he taps on his phone. He wonders how long it’ll take for Sakusa to crack.

Sakusa, to his credit, manages to last forty-nine minutes. Atsumu notes with brief displeasure and interest that Sakusa only looks up after finishing a set of calculations.

“Can I help you?” Sakusa asks him distastefully.

Atsumu grins. This is going to be fun.

“So you’re the great Sakusa. I’ve heard lots about you, ya know,” he chortles at Sakusa’s disgruntled expression. God, the man’s hot but he’s using that face in all the wrong ways. Sakusa has the sort of face they’d probably frame in a museum, the kind that’s unbelievably pretty, but unattainable.

“What do you want?” Sakusa deadpans. “I’m busy.”

“Nothin’.” Atsumu’s face splits like the Cheshire cat. Hook, line, and sinker. “Just thought I’d pay a visit to the guy who’s taking apart my jaeger.”

Sakusa doesn’t speak for a moment, eyes studying Atsumu carefully. Whatever he finds, he huffs and lowers his head back to his papers dismissively.

“Now you’ve visited me.” Sakusa scribbles down a note in the margin of what seems to be blueprints for a hand. “Leave me alone.”

“Woah, no need to get so testy.” Atsumu sneaks a peek at the papers, resisting a comment when he sees that the new design still retains Vulpis’ signature laser blades. “You should let me look over those, considering I’m the one who used to drive that thing.”

“Miya,” Sakusa warns when Atsumu’s straying hands start reaching out.

Atsumu freezes, fingers twitching in annoyance. Sakusa shuts up as well, eyes shifting to the side uneasily.

“Don’t call me that.” He leans back in his chair after picking up a set of notes, not willing to concede defeat so easily.

“Would you prefer asshole instead?” Sakusa snaps, snatching the stack back, quick as the wind. “I’m sure I can think of other names as well.”

Atsumu snorts, despite himself.

“I want to see her,” Atsumu states, straight to the point.

“So you do have an agenda,” Sakusa quips, pretty face still expressionless.

“Don’t we all?” he drawls, tone teasing with enough of a threat. “My jaeger, Sakusa-kun.”

“If you don’t have access, that’s really not my problem.” Sakusa throws him a scathing look. “Get out.”

Fuck, Atsumu didn’t consider what he would do if Sakusa really denied him this.

Fighting down the sudden fear that floods him, he feels the sudden need to flee. Six kaiju kills under his belt, Atsumu has the fleeting thought that Sakusa might turn out to be a worse enemy than all of them combined.

“I woke up two weeks ago brotherless.” Atsumu shoots back, a desperate last-ditch attempt.

He has to go about this carefully. He softens his tone, lowering his voice in a perfect imitation of pitifulness. “Don’t tell me you’re not gonna let me say goodbye to my jaeger as well.”

Sakusa doesn’t look up from his work, punching in numbers on his calculator. “I’ll put in your request to the marshal. Don’t come bother me again.”

Atsumu fixes his killing grin, noting that Sakusa is watching him.

“That would be greatly appreciated, Sakusa-kun.” He smirks, mission accomplished.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa calls him as he’s leaving and Atsumu whips back, surprised.

He finds the other man with a strange look in his eyes, distant like he's looking over Atsumu's shoulder to a faraway horizon.

Where have you been and what have you done? Atsumu feels the strange, sudden urge to ask. And who are you?

“What?” he asks, curious despite himself.

Sakusa looks away first. “Never mind.”

The abrupt ending to the encounter leaves him vaguely disappointed even hours later.

He’s barely two days out of the hospital before he’s put into a psychiatry office. Prisoner safely transferred from one jail to the next, the authorities call it another job well done.

“I don’t really know why I’m here,” he laughs, forcing the sound out like dragging a fork over a chalkboard. “I’m all better, aren’t I?”

“Physical healing isn’t the only form of getting better, Atsumu,” Dr. Kita tells him. Atsumu actually likes him, the neat, compact way he manages to puts himself together and presents a cold but still human facade to the world.

Of course, nobody who lands a job counseling washed-up jaeger pilots can be anything remotely close to human, but Dr. Kita offers him pickled plums with a warm cup of tea and almost comes close enough anyways.

“Well, I’m fine aren’t I?” he snarks, lacing his fingers together over his lap to stop them from fidgeting. “I don’t suppose you could just let me go?”

Dr. Kita levels a look at him, simultaneously skeptical and believing at the same time. Atsumu, who has fought volleyball stadium-sized sea monsters in a giant mecha robot and is still somehow alive, feels a shiver go down his spine nonetheless.

“You’re mandated at least ten sessions, after which I will give a preliminary report on your mental status, but if you show signs of any sort of mental illness I am able to make therapy permanent for you,” Dr. Kita explains, the unsaid threat heard loud and clear.

Atsumu hums like he understands and holds back the urge to tear his own hair out.

“What am I likely to show signs of, doctor?” he asks, sickly sweet.

“Depression, hallucinations, PTSD,” Dr. Kita lists off, just as unimpressed. He looks up at Atsumu and the side of his mouth quirks up just a little in amusement. “Insanity.”

“Well, I’ve been told I’m insane for ages, so you’re a bit late to the party,” he drawls.

He’s enjoying this, he realises. This little game of cat and mouse, except they both think they’re the cat. He’s used to this sort of back and forth, this game where they pick and choose their words like it’s their last meal and carefully serve them to the other.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that if you don’t mind.” Dr. Kita raises an immaculate eyebrow over the rim of his glasses.

“Of course, you’re the one who’s qualified to,” Atsumu replies, diplomatic as ever.

Dr. Kita sighs and looks at the clock on the wall. It’s a clunky thing, a wooden piece with carefully crafted golden hands. All it’s missing is a proper body and a pendulum and Atsumu wouldn’t be surprised if he pushed it aside and revealed the entrance to Dr. Kita’s secret cave.

Five minutes until this session is over. Atsumu counts down to four left.

“We’re almost out of time, and I assume you have no intention of staying longer than you need to.” Dr. Kita states. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Why, you know me so well already, Kita-san.” Atsumu grins. “Save your excitement for the next date, won’t cha?”

Atsumu springs up from his seat, dropping the smile on his face once he has his back turned.

“Look, Atsumu,” Dr. Kita speaks up. Atsumu pauses but doesn’t turn around. “I’m not going to ask you stupid questions like how you’re feeling or if you’re okay, but know that I’m here to help you, alright?”

The world is the cat, Atsumu muses. They’re both mice here.

“Sure, Kita-san.” He offers in peace. Then he leaves the room with no hesitation.

The worst thing about death is the people it leaves behind.

Atsumu stands stiffly in black, accepting words of consolation with no feeling.

Across him, Suna is doing a much better job of playing the part of the distraught beau. They were well known, of course. K-Sci research team assistant Suna Rintarou and Vulpis Empress pilot Miya Osamu becoming an item was the most interesting news in the Tokyo shatterdome for four months, until Semi Eita publically asked out Shirabu Kenjirou in the canteen.

He accepts the firm handshake from Marshal Foster as he passes, the warm hugs from both Bokuto and Kuroo, the understanding nod from Ushijima. He takes these gestures and puts them in his arsenal of weapons, moments of weakness they were willing to give him.

He might need them one day when they ask him to pilot again. He wonders how long that’ll take. The Corps must be restless, with Tokyo only having three active jaegers now. Nagasaki housed another two, but with category fours and double events becoming the norm, five might not be enough soon.

After all, Atsumu was still a ranger. A broken one, to be fair, but a broken pilot was still more of a pilot than a cadet.

Somebody is shaking his arm. “Atsumu.”

Atsumu emerges from his thoughts like the split second your head is above water during a frantic swim, taking in oxygen during that short, flickering chance.

Facing Suna now, Atsumu feels as though he’s missed the crucial moment of breathing and now has the struggle for breath for the next stretch of the swim.

This is the part in movies where they embrace each other and slow, mournful music starts playing in the background as they commemorate their loss. Atsumu is painfully glad real life doesn’t work like movies when all Suna says is “Let’s get a drink.”

It’s a shame that they don’t make good alcohol anymore. The last thing anybody usually wants around these parts is a pilot drunk out of his mind, but he smiles blithely at the head cook and she presses a bottle into his hands without another word anyways.

War has given them all spines of steel and iron. The cooks have their scars in the form of calluses on their fingers and burns from the stoves. This is why Atsumu doesn’t thank her when she gives him bad choices in the form of liquor with nothing more than a pat on the shoulder. They all have their duties here.

“I see you’re as charming as ever,” Suna jokes as Atsumu climbs up the ladder to his lab.

“It’s in the smile you see.” Atsumu chuffs him on the shoulder, taking a direct swig from the bottle. “Works every time.”

“Don’t hog it,” Suna chastises, grabbing the bottle from him.

They don’t talk about Osamu. Instead, they talk about Suna’s newest projects, the details about his research, what he was up to these days.

“They managed to recover most of Namikira’s brain, you know,” Suna brings up. “The parts Eagle Victory didn’t stab through, at least.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu asks, biting down onto the side of his cheek.

Suna looks at him, eyes cloudy and muddled from the alcohol. Atsumu blinks at the love of his brother’s life and watches his gaze turn sharp and focused suddenly.

“I’m going to have fun taking it apart,” Suna spits out, serious and hateful in that quick instant.

They sit in metallic silence after this, until Atsumu snorts, and then they’re wheezing, howling, laughing until their stomachs hurt.

Atsumu’s empty stomach doesn’t agree much with the alcohol he keeps downing, but sitting in the dark laughing with Suna makes it all hurt a little less.

“He wanted me to tell you he loves you,” Atsumu grins, running a shaky hand through his hair. “Part of his last words and all.”

The exhaust fan in Suna’s lab whirls on, a hollow thudding noise resounding through both of them.

“I know.” Suna smiles back at him, unshed tears glinting in his eyes. “I’ve always known.”

After he woke up from Namikira, they gave him a box to pack Osamu’s belongings into. Atsumu lets it sit in the corner of his room for a month before he opens it.

"Sometimes it takes a little cleaning to move on," Dr. Kita suggests lightly. "It's not an unreasonable step to take."

Atsumu remembers Hyogo, razed to the ground with nothing but rubble for miles around.

They knew as soldiers that the survivability rates weren’t high. As children, they hoped anyways.

He remembers digging through piles of debris with desperation clinging to him, remembers Osamu and him clinging to each other over the spot where their home used to stand, baring their vulnerabilities to each other only.

“We only have each other now,” Osamu whispered, in the darkness of the return trip to the shatterdome.

Atsumu held his brother’s hand on the way back. Neither of them let go for a long time.

As the sole remaining survivor of Osamu’s family, both immediate and distant, Atsumu automatically inherits all of Osamu’s physical, tangible belongings. Osamu didn’t have a lot of cash saved up, considering neither of them had any real use for money anymore, but he had a small savings account.

Atsumu doesn’t hesitate when he forwards everything that was into Osamu’s account into Suna’s, whistling a cheery tune as he does so.

The rest isn’t as easy. Atsumu spends two hours sitting in front of their shared wardrobe, carefully folding Osamu’s clothes from their washing into their wardrobe.

Between Hyogo and Namikira, Osamu had somehow gotten an impressive collection of sweatshirts. Most of them are gray or black, but there was the yellow hoodie he liked to wear over a tank top to training and the blue sweater he slept in the night before he died mixed into the mess.

Atsumu considers the sweater. He folds it, then comes back to it an hour later. The hour left soft but sure crease marks in the material, wrinkles in the cotton. Atsumu breaks out the ironing board from where he’d stash it just half an hour ago and irons the sweater again just for good measure.

It’s a nice sweater, he supposes, clutching the fabric to his chest when he doesn’t think he can stand to look at it anymore. Navy, with a small hole in the collar from old age. It’s ratty and worn out, something Osamu had brought over in his luggage from the training camp that would leave them alive and without a family.

Atsumu remembers Osamu hurling the sweater into their hamper the morning before he died. By the time he woke up, they’d already washed everything. Now, he finds himself wishing they didn’t, that they waited just a little for Atsumu to catch up as they moved on.

Osamu liked to do his own washing, had a special detergent he’d mix together out of three different brands he’d pawn off to the cleaning crew. They hadn’t even given him the luxury this time, washing all of their clothes with the standard brand. Atsumu buries his nose into the sweater, the rest of the washing still strewn about.

He must look pathetic, clutching a dead man’s sweater. What did he think would happen, that he could sniff Osamu back to life?

Atsumu folds the sweater up again, resolutely ignoring the marks his fingers leave behind, and puts it into the box. The rest of the clothes he sorts into their wardrobe in the way he knows Osamu likes.

Is it weird if I think my biggest concern right now is that I don’t know what I want my last meal to be? Osamu had once asked nonchalantly as they stumbled into their room, dazed and patched up after their first kaiju kill.

Atsumu woke up alone in a hospital bed six days later and dug out the wrapper from the onigiri Osamu had snagged from the mess hall as a snack before Namikira had sounded the alarms from the trash can. Into the box it went.

Osamu’s spare torch in case of a blackout? Into the box. Osamu’s notebook, where he’d like to make notes about recipes and food? Into the box. Atsumu hesitates for seven minutes in front of the desk with twitching fingers but finds that he can’t bring himself to take down the notes Osamu had pinned up. He throws the rest of the sticky notes and pins into the box anyways. Osamu’s phone-

He toys with Osamu’s phone for a while. Other than the washing, their room remained largely untouched after Atsumu woke up. Somebody had obviously gone through and cleaned a bit, considering the lack of dust, but they were thoughtful enough to put everything else back where they found it.

They left Osamu’s phone on his bed. Atsumu remembers the moment the kaiju alarm signaled Namikira. Osamu had been deep into a video spree, and Atsumu had been working out in the corner of their room.

When the alarm blared, Osamu had chucked his phone up in surprise. It hit the ceiling hard but by then both of them were trying to shove themselves into their drivesuits as fast as possible.

Now, Atsumu strokes the slight dent in the right upmost corner with feather-light fingers. Osamu’s phone lights up, the familiar gate of an Inari shrine which once stood in Hyogo lighting up his lockscreen. The messages Osamu got the day he died still cluttering up the screen in rounded blocks, unread.

Atsumu’s thumb hovers over the power button. He doesn’t think he has it in him to turn his phone off today. He doesn’t think he has in him to unlock it either. There’s a picture Suna once took, the day after they became officially issued to Vulpis, of the two of them standing on the viewing platform in front of their jaeger, rowdily bickering with each other.

Osamu had asked for the picture later the same day, and Atsumu never thought more about it again until he saw it again as Osamu flicked between the pages of his phone in search of an app.

He thinks Atsumu, you have to—

Atsumu leaves the phone at the bottom of the box, shoving it underneath the sweater. He doesn’t think he can stomach any more cleaning today.

Their room looks different without most of Osamu’s stuff in it. Less like something that resembled home and more just like a room. Atsumu isn’t sure he likes it.

He wedges the box into the far corner of the room, stacking the exercise mats on top of it.

Out of sight. He muses, looking at his handiwork. But not out of mind.

He finds sleep just as difficult and uncooperative that night anyways. Fat load of good cleaning did him.

He wanders around the jaeger bay sometimes like a lost dog in search of its owner. The workers all give him a wide berth as he methodically paces up and down the hall.

He got sick and tired of their pitying eyes after a while, and now he only does it after hours. Alone in the dead of the night, he can afford to stop smiling for a while. Come midnight, find the ghost of the shatterdome, Miya Atsumu himself.

“Atsumu.” It’s three in the morning, he dimly notes. “What are you doing here?”

“My, my, Sakusa-kun, didn’t think I’d meet you here,” Atsumu replies on defense, turning towards the voice. “How romantic.”

Sakusa looks as unimpressed as ever. He looks ridiculous, neon yellow jumpsuit over a green undershirt. He’s wearing one of those surgical masks Atsumu’s been told he’s fond of today.

Sakusa studies him, probably taking in his haggard, sleepless appearance. “Mechanics work odd hours,” he gives at last, looking away. Atsumu finds himself wanting to see the predictable downturn of his mouth under the mask.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he offers in return, too tired to think of an excuse.

Sakusa hums in reply. His eyes shift to the side again, distinctly nervous. “Do you want to see her?”

Atsumu gapes at him.

“You worked on Monsoon Prophet, right?” Atsumu asks, following Sakusa as they twist and turn their way towards a garage.

“That is correct.” Sakusa punches in a code aggressively, each jab precise and to the point. Strong hands, Atsumu notes, he thinks he can trust a mechanic with strong hands.

“This your first big project?” They wait for the giant doors to open.

“I was relocated to Nagasaki briefly after Monsoon as they were understaffed. I worked on the team for Impact Hercules for a while.” Sakusa says briskly. “Otherwise, yes.”

“Hercules, huh?” Atsumu whistles. “I was in the academy at the same time as Aran-kun back then, he was a real—“

He never manages to finish the sentence, gazing at what remains at Vulpis Empress.

“Damn, they made a real mess outta ya, didn’t they,” he whispers, staring upwards. Most of the frame was still intact, but there was a large, glaring hole in the middle. The left arm was torn clean off, as well as the scratches around the mangled right knee. Fucking acid-spitting kaiju, he curses to himself.

He trails up the metal stairs, taking the steps one at a time listlessly until he reaches the top. Eighty meters off the ground, he looks at his jaeger straight in the remaining eye. For the first time since Osamu’s death, Atsumu fights the urge to cry.

“I wanted to put her back together, but the nuclear core meltdown rendered almost everything from chest to torso useless,” Sakusa explains. Atsumu snaps out of his thoughts to look at him, unaware he’d been followed until now.

In the dim light of three in the morning, Sakusa looks almost apologetic. Atsumu reaches to put a hand on his shoulder, noting the instinctive way Sakusa instantly jerks back from the approaching limb, taking an abrupt step backward.

“Don’t.” Sakusa sounds strangled rather than threatening, but Atsumu drops his arm anyways. He doesn’t try again.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Sorry.”

Atsumu leans over the side of the metal railing, arching his spine as he leans forward.

“Thanks for trying,” he says softly, unwilling to look at Sakusa. “But I think Namikira was the end of the road for both of us.”

They stand like this for a while, pilot and mechanic side by side.

“They managed to locate her conn-pod from the ocean. There’s not a lot of it left, but I thought you should know,” Sakusa discloses, serious and to the point.

“Can I—“ Atsumu stops himself. He never used to be this unsure of himself. Osamu was the one who always second-guessed his actions. “Please.”

What remains of the conn-pod is most of the right side. Atsumu remembers Namikira’s pincer ripping straight through the hull as he feels his way around in the dark, touching the melted edges of the hole.

The salty tang of ocean water wafts around him, but Atsumu can taste the metallic tang of blood underneath all the same. Somehow, his side of the rig had managed to survive the fight, the metal arm twisted but still hanging.

Atsumu climbs up a small stack of metal bits, slots the end of the rig to his back, holds it there with his hands. He thinks about six successful missions and a single unsuccessful one.

The rig digs into his back. Atsumu used to think that this was his only real way to connect to his brother, the neural bridge. Osamu was the perfect partner for him. Neither of them had anything to hide from each other, shared almost every living memory with each other, no R.A.B.I.Ts to chase for each other.

Now, five weeks after his brother died, Atsumu crushes the rig to his spine, an inexplicable want to drift with Osamu again flooding him. They understood each other, both in and out of the mind-meld, but only when they drifted were they truly one.

“We don’t have much time before the morning check-in. Do you mind?” Sakusa’s voice turns around the corner to take in Atsumu motionless at the center, still holding the rig to himself. “Oh.”

Atsumu releases the steel arm, watching it retract back to what remains of the ceiling, rebounding slightly with the force of the recoil.

“Did you go to the funeral?” Atsumu stands hollow in the center of a conn-pod that had once been the closest thing to home.

“Yes,” Sakusa admits, neither of them look at each other. “It felt fitting.”

“When are you taking her apart?” The corner of his mouth twists in a mockery of a smile. “I think I’d like to be here for that.”

“We haven’t set a date yet, but I can ask for somebody to update you when it happens.” Sakusa wrings each hand out, rotating his wrist delicately in each direction. He’s right, it’s almost morning now, Atsumu should go before somebody catches him here.

Sleep-deprived and exhausted out of his mind, Atsumu smiles. “I’d like that.”

Osamu could never pick a favorite food, but he ate onigiri almost obsessively every time they were available, which was most of the time anyway considering they were based in Tokyo.

Atsumu asks for some nori from the kitchens, cooks a pot of rice by himself and takes bits and pieces of whatever’s leftover from lunch. Then he spends an afternoon clumsily assembling riceballs in his room.

They taste like crap, he’d forgotten to add vinegar to the rice and it wouldn’t stick together properly. Atsumu only manages to get clumps of rice stuck to his hand by the end of it because he skipped wetting his hands before. There are nori flakes everywhere.

Still, the spicy salmon he’d managed to bag from the fridge isn’t bad at all. The sesame ones are maybe even passable.

Atsumu eats all of his shitty, subpar onigiris anyways. He kinda gets why Osamu liked them so much now.

“Sometimes when I dream, I think I see him.” The minute hand of the clock moves forward one more sector, nine more and he’ll be out.

“What is he doing in those dreams?” Dr. Kita asks, cool eyes fixed on him.

Drowning, Atsumu thinks.

“Swimming,” he says instead.

“Always?” Dr. Kita writes something into that notebook of his, angled carefully to hide flowing and neat script away from Atsumu’s sunken eyes.

“Yes,” Atsumu answers, untruthfully. The minute hand crawls to the right once again. Eight minutes left. “Always.”

Dr. Kita hums lightly, the slightest downwards turn of his mouth giving away his displeasure at this admittance. “I see.”

They sit in silence after this. Atsumu watches the minute hand move on the wall clock and feels a horrible, ironic sort of kinship. Osamu used to say that their purpose in life was to move forwards, onwards until they stopped, like salmon swimming upstream against the current.

Isn’t a clock the same? Atsumu wonders. Its only purpose is to mark the clicking minutes one by one until it ran out of battery or broke. Atsumu is the same, isn’t he? Moving forward minute by minute until he didn’t, or until he broke.

The minute hand ticks faithfully back to the top of the clock, the stark 12 marking the end of another hour. Atsumu stifles a hysterical laugh, because he really is the same. Stuttering forward every minute, always somehow returning to a conn-pod in the middle of the pacific ocean and his brother’s face painted in red light, wild fear in his eyes for the very first and only time.

“Thank you for your time, Kita-san.” Atsumu stands, brushing imaginary dust off his pants.

“Thank you for your honesty, Atsumu. I hope your dreams ease up in the future. Until next time.” Dr. Kita stands with the grace of a man who has seen countless dead men straggling into his room and walked away with his sanity intact. Atsumu desperately wishes to be him, for just a second.

I don’t want them to go away. He doesn’t say. This way I can keep him with me.

“Until the next session,” he throws over his shoulder as he leaves.

He isn’t surprised when the order comes in for him to be put on mandatory therapy starting next week.

“Oh.” Sakusa says when they run into each other in the pantry at two am.

“Want some grapes?” Atsumu offers in return, popping another one into his mouth. “They’re really fucking good.”

And they are. Little pockets of sugar and instant energy, just with the slightest bit of a sour aftertaste. Atsumu rolls a grape around his mouth before crunching down on it, savoring the crispy floodgate of the skin and the burst of juice that follows.

“No thanks,” Sakusa answers tersely. He’s holding a metal canteen with some utensils in his hands, grip tight like Atsumu’s a rabid dog about to physically attack him for invading his space.

Then again, Atsumu is eating grapes at two in the morning. He doesn’t even know how many grapes he’s eaten by now. Atsumu can kind of see why Sakusa might look at him wearily.

“Can I offer you anything else? I went to the fruit vendors today and you would not believe how nice they were to me.” Atsumu swallows, gulping down another mouthful of grape mush. “I have longans, blackberries, some plums, even a pineapple. We can go from there.”

Sakusa shoots him a disbelieving, exasperated look. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“That’s what you’re stuck on?” Atsumu munches on another grape. “God, these are so good.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep going.” Sakusa adjusts the edge of his mask, pinching it tighter at the nose. He shuffles closer to the sink, before carefully unloading all his utensils into it before drawing latex gloves from his pocket.

“Shit, that’s some real dedication.” Atsumu slurs, feeling faintly light-headed. They use grapes to make wine right? That explains it.

Sakusa gives him another dirty look before turning the water on. He manages to procure not only a sponge but also a bottle of soap somewhere from the depths of the many pockets of his jumpsuit and he goes to town with them. Atsumu watches in morbid fascination as he cleans his fork, rubbing at it like he has a personal vendetta.

Sakusa washes up like he’s approaching a jaeger, careful and considerate of every possible error, if errors could be measured in specks of grime and oil. Atsumu eats some more grapes.

Sometimes people do things that surprise you. Atsumu believes that this is one of those moments when Sakusa takes a seat opposite him and tugs the carton of grapes away from him.

He’s still wearing his gloves, Atsumu notices but doesn’t make a comment. Some things you don’t need to say to understand.

“That’s enough,” Sakusa scolds, carefully wrapping the box back up. He sets his canteen onto the table, frowning at Atsumu. “Where do you keep these? They’re going to go bad.”

“Samu and I have a mini-fridge. Most expensive shit we bought with our useless paychecks,” Atsumu slurs. It’s either the lack of sleep or the grapes, he decided. He bets it’s the grapes.

“Say, Sakusa-kun.” Atsumu leans across the table, feeling like a conspiracy theorist on the loose. Sakusa naturally leans backward to avoid him. “What’s your deal?”

“What do you mean?” Sakusa wrinkles his brow.

“Like, whaddya doing in this war? Nobody’s here without a story,” Atsumu pries. “I mean, you can tell me this shit. We’re friends by now, don’t cha think? I come to bother you, you let me into areas I’m not sure I’m authorised to enter, yadda yadda yadda. And boom, friendship.”

“We,” Sakusa says decisively. “Are not friends.”

“Don’t be like that,” Atsumu laughs. “I’d say we are friends, if not at least acquaintances by this point. You’re one of the only people who’s actually talked to me since Namikira anyways.”

Sakusa freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Atsumu would feel bad about bombarding the guy with personal questions, but nobody else ever seems to feel remorse for asking him the same sort of questions. Plus Atsumu’s not a very understanding person in the first place, so he pressed on.

“Come on, if you won’t tell me that, at least gimme something to work with here,” Atsumu whines, batting his lashes at Sakusa. “I feel like you know too much about me, s’not fair. So, Omi-kun, I can call you that right? What’s the deal with the mask?”

“First of all,” Sakusa starts, calm as the eye of a typhoon. “You may not call me that.”

Atsumu watches him in amused silence.

“Second, I don’t know much of anything about you at all.” Sakusa steamrolls on. “Third, some of us care about hygiene. There’s not much more to it.”

“Bullshit.” Atsumu grins, predator-wide. “That’s a load of bullshit and you and I both know it, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa’s eye visibly twitches. “That’s all you’re going to get.”

Atsumu laughs. Sakusa pauses like that wasn’t the response he was aiming for. Well, he really should have known better, Atsumu was always the unpredictable twin.

“Fine, I’ll let ya off the hook this time.” He leans back on his chair, careful not to tip too far back. It was all in the balance, Osamu had mastered the art of chair tipping early on.

“That’s dangerous,” Sakusa warns, but he looks faintly amused as well.

“I piloted a giant mecha robot to fight giant sea monsters, Omi-kun,” Atsumu drawls. “I think I can handle a chair.”

“I sure you can.” Sakusa pushes his chair back in preparation to leave. “But there’s no harm in being careful anyways.”

He’s not even refuting the pet name anymore, Atsumu dimly notes. Atsumu looks up at Sakusa’s face, really looks at him, the tired bags under his eyes, the unkempt mop of curls, the bridge of his nose peeking out under his mask.

“I suppose not,” He says carefully. Sakusa smiles under the mask, but they both do a good job of pretending he isn’t.

There’s a tiny crack in their ceiling, just above the top bunk where someone threw a phone in surprise against. Atsumu knows this, because he’s the person who threw the phone in the first place.

Except that’s not entirely correct, because Osamu was the one who slept in the top bunk. Seven weeks after waking up alone in a hospital bed, Atsumu lies in Osamu’s bed and looks at that insignificant crack, the barely audible ticking of their clock ringing in his ears.

It feels right, but somehow wrong all the same. He has Osamu’s memory of throwing the phone and he has felt Osamu’s surprise at the exact moment the phone was thrown and he even has Osamu’s phone, still turned on at the bottom of his box of Osamu’s belongings.

This is what Atsumu thinks at four in the morning, lying in his dead brother’s bed: He is not Osamu, but he might as well be.

What of Osamu’s does he not have? He has his parents, and every physical thing he has ever owned, and he even has Osamu’s face. By all means, he’s as close to Osamu as it gets, biologically or otherwise.

There’s a long streak of kaiju blood connecting him to a fixed point in time, Atsumu thinks, and if he were to follow it, it brings him back to seven weeks ago and back in the conn-pod of Vulpis Empress looking at his brother’s terrified eyes. It brings him back to a time when he was still living.

Who? The little voice in his mind asks. It sounds like Osamu. Me? Or are you talking about yourself?

“Leave me ‘lone, Samu,” he grumbles.

He’s had enough of this. He can’t sit here and listen to Osamu’s taunting anymore, and then his fingers catch on a piece of paper, tucked neatly into the crevice between the mattress and the wall.

Atsumu pulls it out, knows immediately by the shape and the weight that it’s a letter. He sits on his dead brother’s bed and looks at the name written on it: Rin

Atsumu sits there holding, but not registering, the letter. He checks the space next to the bed again and again for another. He doesn’t find anything.

There’s a sick, bubbling feeling in his stomach as he places the letter dedicated to the love of his brother’s life in his lap and nothing else. Atsumu looks at the crisp, careful name written on the front and remembers.

(“What’s going on with you and Sunarin? You sure looked busy back there.” He’s cackling, fierce glee and joy coursing through him at the embarrassed look on Osamu’s face.

“Fuck off, Tsumu. I don’t have to tell you anything,” Osamu says, but he’s smiling anyway.

“I’ll see everything the next time we’re back in the pod anyways, Samu. Or is it too dirty to tell?” he jabs, wild laughter escaping when Osamu tackles him and they roll around clawing at each other like children again.

They lay in the aftermath of their tussle and there’s a new bruise that’s beginning to set in the corner of Atsumu’s jaw but Osamu has little scratches down the left side of his cheek so Atsumu thinks they’re even anyways.

“Tsumu.” Osamu nudges his shoulder.

And so Atsumu looks to his left, looks at his brother’s face, serious and contemplative.

“Atsumu,” Osamu says. “I think I might marry him one day.”

Osamu turns his head ninety degrees to the right, where Atsumu always was for him. They watch each other in silence, and it’s right then and there Atsumu realises that they’re both smiling.)

The crack in the ceiling is still there.

He looks at the fucking crack on the ceiling, the little jagged line of imperfection, the peeling chips of paint like a scab around a wound. He looks at the crack and it tells him shut up, you jerk, you couldn’t be me even if you tried in Osamu’s perfect intonation, with just a hint of the Hyogo accent Osamu spent weeks training out of his speech.

No, he is not Osamu. Somehow that makes him feel worse.

Atsumu sits in on the next cadets’ training session he can get into, itching for a fight. There’s some sort of misplaced anger boiling in him, at his own inadequacy.

Fightmaster Meian gives him a warm chuff to the shoulders and shoves him into the ring, throwing him a staff in one quick motion.

He beats his way through eleven cadets before one gives him a little trouble. Atsumu blocks with his staff, whirls around smoothly and goes in for a sweep.

The kid jumps in the nick of time, striking forward fast to tap him once on the shoulder. It’s not enough to count as the end of the round, and within four moves Atsumu flips the cadet over his shoulder and onto the mat.

“Hey, you’re pretty fun,” Atsumu laughs. A quick glance at the clock tells him only twenty-six minutes have passed since his arrival and at least nine of those minutes have been spent on this one guy. “What’s your name?”

“Kageyama Tobio,” the cadet pants in response. He has this ugly bowl cut Atsumu would love to take a pair of scissors to and a quiet sort of disposition Osamu would have appreciated.

“Well, Tobio-kun, if you’d like more practice you know where to find me.“ Anger still simmers at the pits of his stomach, barely contained.

Atsumu sits the rest of the lesson out, waiting for the cadets to trickle out before approaching Meian.

“How do you want to do this?” Meian asks, pushing sweaty hair back from his forehead.

“Fists.” Atsumu cracks his neck to the right, relishing in the satisfying click of his bones shifting back into place. Then he throws the first punch.

Meian comes without mercy. They spend the next hour pummeling each other into the mats, grappling like animals over territory.

“Shit, you always did have a nice uppercut,” Meian puffs after the nth victory, the nth loss.

“You got better too,” Atsumu flops onto the mats. He should probably do proper cooldown exercises, his body not used to the sudden action after weeks of dormancy.

He feels alive, more alive than he has ever been ever since he woke up. Still, it isn’t enough. He lifts a hand to block the bright ceiling lights from blinding him, casting shadows onto his face. It’s still not enough.

That took fifty-eight minutes, he notes, feeling better but not satisfied. Osamu would have lasted longer.

“Is it weird if I don’t feel sad at all?” Atsumu wonders, watching the workers swarm around Vulpis, getting ready to dismantle what’s left. “I should feel sad, shouldn’t I?”

Sakusa is silent next to him, pressing buttons and snapping out orders through his phone. They’re back on the observation deck today, a thin metal walkway raising them like gods above the commotion downstairs.

“I mean, I think I might even be kind of happy.” Atsumu rambles on, not minding the quiet. “Isn’t that kinda fucked up?”

“The presence of grief doesn’t mean the absence of joy,” Sakusa says simply, frowning as he pokes at his tablet.

Atsumu thinks about pickled plums with a warm cup of tea, of shitty hand-made onigiri and grapes at two am. He giggles to himself a little because Osamu would probably appreciate the correlation between happiness and food.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That sounds about right.”

They don’t speak again for the next while, Sakusa concentrated on the task at hand. He makes calls when necessary, writing down notes on his tablet.

Slowly, part by part, the rest of Vulpis gets broken down into nothing but screws and bolts. The remaining arm is left mostly intact, ready to be transformed into whatever new jaeger Sakusa’s managed to cook up.

Atsumu’s seen a few of the plans, a streamlined Mark V in the works. Sakusa has approached him, asking if it was okay if they kept some of the weapons that were strapped into Vulpis’ artillery.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu had said. “Vulpis had fuckin laser blades. That’s unbelievably sick, don’t cha think? Course you can keep ‘em.”

Piece by piece, Vulpis is broken down before his eyes. As they announce the end of the operation for the day, Atsumu leans over the railing as far as he can go and offers a final wave goodbye.

“Get back,” Sakusa snaps. Atsumu moves backward, conscious not to get into Sakusa’s space. The skies are clear today, faded through the heavy-duty glass of the shatterdome. Atsumu watches a cloud drift lazily by, pixelated.

“Samu left a letter,” he tells Sakusa, because he has nobody else to tell it to. “It’s not written to me.”

Visible confusion flickers through the half of Sakusa’s face he can see. He’s wearing another face mask today, Atsumu still wonders why.

“It’s dedicated to Suna. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.” He chokes out a bitter laugh. “Samu was always the more human one outta the two of us.”

Sakusa has no obligation to be here now that his work for the day is technically done, but he humors Atsumu anyways, raising a brow in disinterest. Sakusa's ability to just not care makes him endearing to Atsumu, who has wasted his whole life caring too much in comparison.

“I don’t have the guts to give it to him,” Atsumu confesses. “We got drunk once after Samu died and I’ve just been avoiding him after.”

“Why?” Sakusa inquires. He doesn’t look curious, which Atsumu didn’t expect him to be. He asks the question anyway, which is what Atsumu appreciates.

“Too chicken to empathise.” Atsumu leans back onto the railing, bracing himself with his hands to face Sakusa. “The only time in my life I wasn’t connected to Samu in some way or form was passed out in that escape pod.”

“I don’t want somebody to understand how I feel.” This is the type of shit he should probably be saying to his therapist, instead of the pacifying crap he spews to get through every session with Dr. Kita.

“I feel like if there’s somebody out there who shares my grief, then I’ll feel,” he pauses. “Less. I’m fucking miserable, but I want to be the only person who feels this way at the same time.”

Sakusa tilts his head. He doesn’t look pitying, more bored than anything. Something about his blunt personality feels like a breath of fresh air in the suffocating ocean of life.

“That seems counterproductive,” Sakusa states. “You’re not moving on this way.”

“Omi-Omi-kun, shut yer mouth!” Atsumu whines. “Here I am, spilling my heart out to you and you just gotta rub it in more.”

“I didn’t ask for you to,” Sakusa replies tersely, but he’s still listening and he’s still here.

“That’s true.” Atsumu sobers, the corners of his mouth still turned upwards.

“Maybe I don’t want to.” Atsumu tips his head back to look through the glass. His cloud is long gone by now. “Maybe I don’t want to move on from him.”

“Atsumu,” Sakusa says sharply, the beginning of alarm creeping into his voice. “You know they mean for you to pilot this jaeger when we’re done, right?”

Ah. Of course, Atsumu had always known about the cruelty of reality. He had assumed as much, but hearing it confirmed was still like being doused by a bucket of cold water. The truth was desperation, the future was desolate. Atsumu can still fight, so he still had potential. Of course, their best plan of action is to shove a washed-up pilot with some fresh-faced cadet straight from the academy into a jaeger and call it a day.

Those shit-eating PPDC bastards.

“He was my co-pilot, Omi-kun.” The thought of getting into another jaeger with somebody who wasn’t Osamu was sickening. “You don’t get over somebody who you literally shared a womb with that easily. I fought and lived with him for as long as I can remember. Before that, even.”

He drags the letter out from his pocket, watches Sakusa’s eye follow the trail it makes as he waves it in the air.

“Maybe I’m just way too hungover this letter business. Maybe Samu didn’t leave me anything because he thought I’d understand him anyways. Maybe he just didn't care. He was like that, always expecting way too much from me.” His fingers clench around the metal railing. “Fucker was still my brother though.”

“Atsumu,” Sakusa calls again.

“Samu and I were always terrible at drawing the line between us, ya see,” Atsumu confesses, feeling more unsettled about this admittance than he would like. “It’s hard to have boundaries with the guy who’s literally been inside your mind.”

“Is it so bad if I don’t want to get over him?” Atsumu asks, feeling strangely desperate. “Sometimes I find myself feeling things I never used to feel before and wonder if it’s him. That somehow he’d just been absorbed into me through the neural connection.”

“The presence of joy does not mean the absence of grief,” Sakusa concedes, face harsh and starking in the pale light of afternoon. The clouds are starting to darken, there's a storm rolling in.

Atsumu studies the letter in his hand, the neat script printed on the front. It doesn’t hold his name. Atsumu could cross out the name and write his own over it and the letter still wouldn’t be meant for Atsumu.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That sounds about right.”

It takes him another two weeks to scrounge up the nerve to talk to Suna. He finds him in the lab talking to Tendou Satori.

Now Tendou, that’s a guy Atsumu has never gotten along with. There’s a Chinese proverb he learned years ago which roughly translates to something like two tigers cannot prowl the same mountain.

He and Tendou are like that, Atsumu figures. Two tigers on the same mountain, unable to co-exist peacefully.

“Oh? Miya-Miya, what brings you to our humble abode?” Tendou grins. He has a predator smile, the kind that peeks into your soul and curls around. Atsumu isn't exactly surprised that the guy’s obsessed with kaiju of all things.

“It’s Atsumu.” He smiles his own predator smile back, the kind that promises blood. “If you don’t mind.”

“Oho!” Tendou’s laugh is as maniacal as ever. He makes a vague pawing gesture, complete with a terrible rendition of a cat’s hiss.

“He’s here for me, Tendou-san. We can finish our discussion later,” Suna cuts in before either of them snap and jump the other.

“If you say so, Suna-Suna.” Tendou pouts. “I can check out the new toys anyways.”

Atsumu raises a brow at Suna as Tendou leaves.

“They sent over a shipment of carcasses from Nagasaki,” Suna explains. “Elysian Knight took down a category four two days ago.”

Ah, Oikawa. That’s another guy Atsumu can’t stand. He’s the sort of person who would trip you in the mess hall if you pissed him off earlier with a sneer on his face. Atsumu severely disliked Oikawa, but Osamu despised him, which made Atsumu hate Oikawa even more in return.

It was for the best when Elysian Knight got relocated to Nagasaki.

“Wonder how Iwaizumi stands that guy,” Atsumu shrugs, leaning onto the cleaner parts of Suna’s desk. God knows what Suna has dissected on this exact table and Atsumu isn’t about to ask.

“They’ve known each other since they were kids, right?” Suna brings up, clearing away what looks like bits of kaiju guts from the floor. Atsumu isn’t squeamish, but prolonged exposure to the labs might make him reconsider.

“So, why are you here?” Suna asks once they’ve both settled down.

Atsumu tries not to squirm away from Suna’s knowing gaze. “What, can’t I visit a friend?”

“Of course,” Suna insists. “Would be less weird if you haven’t been avoiding me for the past two months though.”

Atsumu doesn’t startle, because he was expecting the conversation to go like this from the beginning.

“What happened, Atsumu?” Suna bulldozes on. “One day it was the funeral and the next I feel like I only see you in the mess hall once a week.”

“Would it shock ya if I told you I was scared?” Atsumu fidgets, sticking his hand into his pockets.

“No,” Suna challenges. “But that can’t be all it is, can it?”

Atsumu thumbs the letter in his jeans, resisting the urge to throw it at Suna’s face and flee. This is what he wanted to avoid, having somebody who feels his grief just as deeply. Now he’s forced to actually talk about Osamu because Suna is the only person left able to talk about Osamu the way he wants to.

“Fuck. You’re merciless.” Atsumu withdraws the letter from his pocket, hearing the way Suna stops mid exhale. “You’re right. It’s guilt, alright? Are you happy now?”

He crosses the room in two quick strides, placing the letter in front of Suna. Suna’s breath hitches once he recognises the handwriting.

“I’m sorry I’m alive,” Atsumu says gently. “I’m really fucking sorry, Suna.”

He’s not expecting the slap when it comes, but holy shit, Suna has sharp nails. Atsumu’s going to have to walk around with little slashes across his face for the next week. Atsumu's left cheek stings with the force of the slap but at least he's still facing forward. Washed-up pilot or not, he still has ten pounds of muscle on Suna.

He might be bleeding, he thinks he deserves it.

“Don’t say that.” Suna’s shaking, lithe frame trembling. Atsumu is kind of absurdly proud. “Don’t you dare say that.”

Goddamnit, Atsumu really wanted to avoid this.

Suna fists his hands into Atsumu’s shirt. He’s wearing one of Osamu’s t-shirts today, Suna can probably recognise it.

“He died, and he died for you.” Suna fumes. “So don’t you fucking dare say sorry.”

Atsumu bows his head onto Suna’s shoulder in apology without a word. He can feel Suna swallow heavily next to him. And then, Suna is crying, warm tears soaking through the thin material of Osamu’s shirt.

Suna cries until he has no tears left, then he cries some more for the sake of it. Atsumu lets him lean on him until his sobs choke off, still clasping his shirt. He doesn’t make a move to hold Suna at any point.

“Thank you,” Suna babbles, eyes drifting to the letter.

Atsumu’s job here is done, but he can’t find himself to leave either. He’d known for long that Suna was the only person who shared his grief, who understood. Faced with a mirror, Atsumu finds he has no words.

“Suna,” he offers, tentative, an olive branch. “Let’s go get haircuts.”

Suna looks back at him, eyes rimmed red, fingers still clutched around the letter.

“Okay,” Suna agrees. Something in Atsumu’s chest aches less. “You really need to get a touch-up anyways.”

Dr. Kita smiles at him. Atsumu is becoming better at telling his smiles apart, this is a real one.

“It’s rare to see you on time for one of these sessions, Atsumu.” Dr. Kita uncrosses his leg. “Tea?”

“Yes please.” Atsumu sits down. He’s always found the way these offices are set up to be so cliche, but he thinks he can enjoy the intimacy of them now.

Dr. Kita sets a cup in front of him, still steaming. He doesn’t do things by halves, those are real leaves sinking to the bottom of the cup. Atsumu appreciates his dedication. Little things like these make them all the more human in the long run.

“Have your dreams been better?” Atsumu’s been feeding him bullshit for the past sessions.

“Not really,” he answers truthfully this time, just to watch pleasant surprise bloom over Dr. Kita’s usually stoic face.

“In my dreams,” Atsumu starts, hesitating on where to begin. “I think sometimes I am him. No, I think we’re the same person.”

Sometimes Atsumu wakes up from sleep disoriented, unsure of who he is. Sometimes he dreams of things he’s never done, things he’s never said, things he’s only seen in Osamu’s mind during the drift.

Sometimes he dreams of Hyogo, of the volleyball they’d gotten as a gift as children and used to toss around. Sometimes he dreams of Suna, laughing with him, loving him. Sometimes he dreams of the bottom of the ocean and wakes up panting, feeling faintly strangled.

“Have you experienced this feeling when awake?” Dr. Kita asks, withdrawing a notebook from his desk. He has a customised pen, the kind you see in movies, a jet black piece with one of those calligraphy nibs.

“Sometimes.” Atsumu feels hollow, wrung out. “It was already difficult to separate him from me before, but now it feels tenfold. Like somehow he seeped into me when he ripped us out of the neural bridge, like he left a piece of him in me before he went off to die.”

“I don’t know how to live without him.” Atsumu shifts his gaze to that wall clock again, faithfully ticking forward. “It’s like learning to use a limb again, except you think you’re walking again but then you realise that you never had the limb to begin with.”

Dr. Kita scribbles something into his notebook. His handwriting is plain but effective, each stroke with intention.

“My grandmother—“ Dr. Kita begins, then pauses.

“I don’t think it’s ethical to share personal information with patients, doctor.” Atsumu slumps into his seat, curious about where this is going nonetheless.

“Did you know,” Dr. Kita looks right into his eyes. “That I’m from Hyogo as well?”

Atsumu’s blood runs cold for a moment. “What?”

“I remember you and your brother, actually.” Dr. Kita sets his glasses aside. He looks a lot more youthful like this, more real. “I was still in training then, but I got the chance to mourn as well.”

“I saw the two of you digging through the rubble back then. You two were ruthless, digging even when the rest of us had given up.” Dr. Kita scrubs at his face with a tired hand.

“We didn’t find anything except for two of those good luck fox trinkets,” Atsumu whispers, stuck in memory. “Our mom used to hang those out on our front door.”

He still has the trinket hanging by their window. Osamu has his next to his bed. Atsumu threw it into the box on cleaning day, it should still be there.

“My grandmother,” Dr. Kita says again. “She used to say that someone is always watching. God is around us in every living thing, Atsumu, so God is always watching over us.”

“What do you mean?” Atsumu rasps, feeling painfully young again.

“My point is, Atsumu.” Dr. Kita fixes him with a cool, sharp gaze. “We are all gods, Atsumu. God is always watching over you, be it yourself or somebody else.”

Osamu. Atsumu blinks back tears. Somebody is always watching over me.

“I—“ He’s stuck, speechless for once. There are so many words that want to be said and none of them are coming out.

“What is a god without a purpose?” Dr. Kita sighs, taking a sip from his cup. “That is my point, Atsumu. You must find your purpose.”

Something in Atsumu’s cavity of a chest shifts. Atsumu bends over, forcing back the childish urge to cry. His heart clenches painfully, hiding his face in his hands.

We are all gods. He thinks. What is my purpose?

The clock signals the end of another session. For the first time, Atsumu stays past the hour.

Atsumu flips through the list of cadets, looking at the deathlist they’d provided him with.

The PPDC decided that they’ve given him enough time, that he must pick a new partner. Marshal Foster had handed the file to him reluctantly, betraying his own thoughts.

You told me you were sorry for my loss. Atsumu wanted to beg. Don’t do this to me.

But he is a pilot and they are in a war. Atsumu accepted the folder and went on his way.

Now he flicks through the pages, wondering who he’ll be bringing to his death next. There are a few promising ones, a few that catch his eye. He’ll have to find out in the Kwoon combat room tomorrow.

Goshiki Tsutomu this, Kuguri Naoyasa that. Atsumu stops on Kageyama Tobio’s page and considers the future. He still really wants to take a pair of scissors and just shear off the kid’s ugly bangs.

“Hey, what do you think I should do?” He stormed into Sakusa’s office twenty minutes ago and Sakusa just looked resigned. It’s not the first time he’s done this. The first time he did it Sakusa threatened to report him to the authorities. By the fourth time, he had stopped trying to chase Atsumu out.

“Why are you asking me?” Sakusa responds carefully, sketching designs into his tablet. “I’m not the one who has to get into a jaeger with your choice.”

“You’re the one who’s building the jaeger,” Atsumu pouts. “I feel like you should get some say as well.”

He flips through the folder once more.

“There’s this kid that’s kind of interesting.” Atsumu plays with the edge of the page, flicking it between his fingers. “I met him once.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything, but his head tilts right in the way that means he’s listening. Atsumu wonders when he could start understanding Sakusa’s tells like this.

“Well, really, I meant I fought him once.” Atsumu reads Kageyama’s file again. A year younger than him from Miyagi. Oh, Miyagi was right by the shore, not that there was a lot of Japan that wasn’t. If Atsumu remembers right, half of Miyagi had gotten crushed along with all of Iwate by a category five.

“He was pretty good. Lasted almost ten minutes in the ring.” Miyagi really was a crockpot of genius pilots. Ushijima and Oikawa were both from Miyagi, which meant Iwaizumi and probably Shirabu were too. Shit, what do they feed the kids up at Miyagi?

Sakusa hums under his breath, focused on his work. He nods once in the way that means go on.

“I mean.” Atsumu kicks his feet back and forth like a child, careful not to scrape the ground. “I’d prefer it if I don’t have to do this at all, but he seems interesting.”

He shuts the folder, hiding away the list of cadets for now.

“Will you come tomorrow?” Atsumu requests. “To watch.”

“That’s a waste of my time,” Sakusa answers briskly, but he says it in the way that really means yes, I will.

There’s something so familiar about winning. Atsumu kicks the first cadet’s ass, then the second, then the third.

Goshiki Tsutomu makes him laugh, Kuguri Naoyasa makes him think, Kageyama Tobio makes him actually try.

Still, he slams the last cadet they send his way into the mats with no remorse, just starting to break out into a sweat.

Yeah, he’d gotten too used to winning. Maybe that was why losing to Namikira felt so foreign.

They go another round. Goshiki lasts seven minutes, Kuguri lasts nine. Kageyama lasts fourteen.

“This is as good as it gets.” He offers Kageyama a hand up. Marshal Foster chooses a few of the cadet files. “Let’s try a stimulator drop.”

He doesn’t want to drift again, much less with a stranger like Kageyama. The thought of another person in his mind made him want to throw up. But Atsumu was a soldier at the front lines, so he has to play the part.

Osamu knew so much about him that there wasn’t much to learn in the drift, nothing to overwhelm him. Atsumu watches Kageyama frantically gulp down water and wonders what he’ll learn.

He can spot Sakusa sitting at the back of the room, away from the rest of the crowd. Atsumu waits for the group that came to watch thin out before approaching.

“You came?” he asks, sitting a foot away. Sakusa wrinkles his nose, probably wincing at Atsumu’s sweaty appearance. To save him some face, Atsumu scoots a little further, until Sakusa relaxes.

He still doesn’t know what the deal with Sakusa is, but he won’t prod. Atsumu learned early on that everybody in the shatterdome had their own demons.

“I said I would,” Sakusa replies. He hands Atsumu a towel, folded neatly. It smells like it came straight from the laundry.

“Ah,” Atsumu accepts thankfully. “Whaddaya think?”

“It’s not a bad match,” Sakusa comments mindlessly.

But it’s not a good one either. Neither of them say.

“It’ll be at least two more months until the jaeger has the first prototype anyways.” Sakusa shifts, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Give or take another half a year until final completion.”

“Have you given it a name yet?” Atsumu wipes sweat away from his hairline, dabbling at the spots on his chest. He grabs the collar of his tank, fanning it back and forth to create a gentle breeze.

Sakusa made a vaguely strangled noise. When Atsumu blinks out from underneath the towel, Sakusa is looking away, a weird flush over the top of his mask.

“No.” Sakusa swallows. “Not yet.”

“Why not?” Atsumu asks, confused about Sakusa’s behavior. “I thought the head mechanic got the final call.”

“I thought I’d let the pilots name it.” Sakusa makes eye contact briefly before his eyes stray elsewhere again.

“Oh,” Atsumu replies intelligently. That was unexpected, Atsumu would have thought Sakusa would have been the sort of control freak who wouldn’t give the honor of naming his first jaeger to somebody else.

“Hey, Omi-kun,” he starts. Something about this moment feels important, like some crucial part of one of those RPG games Osamu liked so much you couldn’t afford to mess up if you wanted to attain the true ending. “Let’s go out and get some good food.”

Sakusa whips his head around to look at Atsumu, he has the look in his eyes again, Atsumu notices. Faraway, like he’s looking at some distant horizon. Atsumu wonders what he’s seeing. These days he looks over his shoulder and somehow Osamu is always standing there.

“Now?” Sakusa stutters.

Atsumu laughs. “Well, maybe not now now, I really need a shower. But I hear there’s some sort of festival going on in town.”

“I’m not sure that’s a very good idea.” Sakusa articulates each syllable carefully.

“Come on, Omi-kun.” Atsumu frowns. “You can bring your own utensils and everything, I won’t judge.”

If this was anybody else, Atsumu would be all over them, trying to get them to agree. Sakusa’s a special case though, somebody he’s learned he has to treat delicately if he wants to win.

“You won’t?” Sakusa asks, strangely vulnerable. Atsumu feels some sort of pity spark in his chest.

“Nah.” He cushions his head with his arms as he tips back onto the wall. “We’re all a little weird out here, we have to be.”

“I really don’t want to go,” Sakusa says, in the way that means alright, I’ll trust you on this one.

“Meet you at seven.” Atsumu grins.

“Going somewhere?” Suna leans against his doorframe, watching Atsumu struggle between two shirts which look exactly the same.

“Out,” Atsumu teases back.

“Wear the one on the right, leave the top two buttons unbuttoned and roll up the sleeves,” Suna advises, tutting as he picks up a brush, untangling the knots in Atsumu’s hair.

“It’s not like that.” Unprompted, Atsumu feels the need to make the point anyway. “It’s really not like that.”

“Not like what?” Suna hums, shit-eating grin in place.

Atsumu shakes his head because it really isn’t. Sakusa is pretty, that’s the sort of fact people just generally understood. Grass is green, Kaiju are bad, Sakusa is hot, that kind of stuff.

But really, it’s not. Sakusa has the sort of face Atsumu wouldn’t have hesitated to ask out before he became a ranger, but the worst thing about death is the people it leaves behind. Osamu died five months ago and left him behind.

Atsumu doesn’t think he has it in him to put anybody through that.

“If you say so,” Atsumu hisses as Suna runs the brush through his tangled hair, still wet from his shower. “But you should know that the shatterdome is talking.”

“I’ve barely interacted with the guy,” Atsumu snaps, feeling strangely defensive. “Maybe the shatterdome should mind their own business.”

“Atsumu, nobody actually interacts with him other than you,” Suna combs Atsumu’s hair into place, sweeping his bangs to the right. “Personally I’m kind of surprised you’re still alive. Sakusa-san feels like the sort of person who could murder you without a second thought.”

“Omi-kun’s not that bad,” Atsumu chooses a denim jacket, slinging it over his shoulders. “He’s just misunderstood.”

“Aren’t we all?” Suna holds the door open for him. “Good luck making it through the night.”

Atsumu flips him the bird before stalking down the corridor, Suna’s laugh following him as he goes.

He finds Sakusa waiting downstairs, at the entrance to the shatterdome. Neither of them says anything as they step out into the city, as the streetlights come to life to illuminate the city as night fell.

They find the festival easily, strings of cheap LED lights leading the way. It’s not a bad turnout actually, the festival’s managed to attract a decent crowd. Over scuttling heads, Atsumu can spot several food stalls as well as a few shops. There’s some sort of game or attraction in the far corner, where he can eat the laughter of children.

“I can’t—“ Sakusa breaks the silence, looking stricken at the mass of people. Atsumu is reminded of Sakusa, exhausted out of his mind at four in the morning, still jerking away from his touch like second nature.

“Okay,” Atsumu concedes, not unkindly. “Go find a spot to sit, I’ll come to find you.”

War really had transformed all of them. One of the vendor points in recognition and Atsumu finds his arms suddenly laden with food, packets of steaming takoyaki and crispy taiyaki. A woman pushes two skewers of dango into his hands with a soft smile and twinkling eyes.

He wanders around the rest of the festival in a daze, warmed by their kindness. People shout and yell around him in glee, children bustle past his feet. It feels like happiness as he melts into the crowd, nameless and faceless.

He finds Sakusa sitting sullenly at one of the faraway tables they set up in the nearby park, away from the commotion.

“Omi-kun, I bought food.” His smile comes easily, then he realises there’s a child clinging to Sakusa, the man in question looking panicked.

“Woah there,” he laughs, scooping the child up and away from Sakusa. He pretends not to notice Sakusa extract a bottle of spray sanitiser from his bag, turning to the kid in his arms.

“What’s your name, kiddo?” He lifts her high in the air to hear her giggles like fragrant spring breeze.

“Natsu,” she gurgles through her laughter. “Hinata Natsu.”

“Well, Natsu-chan,” he coos, bouncing her on his hip. “Where are your parents? I’m sure they’re very worried about you.”

“Dunno,” the girl starts to say before spotting a worried-looking woman across the field. “Mama!”

The woman rushes over. Natsu has a shock of wild orange hair instead of brown, but Atsumu can see the similarities in their features once she gets closer.

“I’m so sorry, I turned around and she was just gone!” Natsu’s mother laughs breathlessly.

“It’s no problem, Hinata-san,” Atsumu replies, letting the girl down onto the ground so she can run towards her mother. “Children are like that. It’s good for the soul, I think.”

Natsu’s mother gives him another glance before recognition floods her face. “Oh, you’re...“ she trails off, uncertainty obvious.

“Yeah.” Atsumu hides a bitter smile. “That’s me.”

“Are,” she pauses, gaze turning soft and tender. “Are you alright?”

Sometimes it takes a stranger’s kindness to be understood. Atsumu bites back the no that is on the tip of his tongue, forcing the word back down.

“I’ll have to be,” Atsumu voices, letting his smile turn real.

“Thank you,” Hinata-san bows, too genuine to be anything but personal. “We’re from Miyagi, you see. We took a trip up there last year when Vormajin surfaced. You saved our lives back then.”

Vormajin. Atsumu remembers that kaiju. Had about eight eyes and things that resembled giant insect wings. Him and Samu’s third kill, a clean, easy job that ended with all of their plasma cannons being fired into Vormajin’s guts.

“All in a day’s work.” Atsumu smiles. The two of them went out for ice cream after that kill. Atsumu had gotten two vanilla scoops on a cone, Osamu had gotten his usual sesame in a cup.

There were still good memories like that Atsumu could hold onto, memories of Osamu outside of the drift he still had. Somehow that makes all the difference.

“We better get going now," Hinata-san holds Natsu’s hand in her own, protective and loving. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you any further.”

“It was a pleasure.” Atsumu grins. “Bye-bye, Natsu-chan.”

She sticks her tongue out to him, painfully young and unknowing. Atsumu waves at their backs as they leave, turning back to Sakusa.

Sakusa watches him, something close to mourning in his eyes. Atsumu feels the strange, sudden urge to ask once again: Who are you?

“We should eat, the food’s getting cold,” Sakusa reminds softly, withdrawing gloves and a pair of chopsticks from his bag. He snaps the gloves on like routine before tearing into the packets. Atsumu watches him rip careful holes into each package, offering them to Atsumu without a word.

“Thank you,” Atsumu settles opposite him, watching Sakusa meticulously pick apart a piece of okonomiyaki. “I’m kinda surprised so many people recognised me though. The vendors were so nice.”

“Atsumu.” Sakusa sounds like he’s eating rocks, just on the edge of ticked off. “You do realise you’re sort of a big deal, right?”

“Am I?” Atsumu blinks in surprise. It’s not like Sakusa to praise anybody, much less him.

“You saved me in Shizuoka eleven months ago.” Sakusa blurts out, the confession fluttering away in the wind. “I saw you.”

“What?” Atsumu rears back in surprise. “Oh, do you mean Sabrecrest?”

Sakusa nods furiously, lowering his gaze to the table.

Sabrecrest was Vulpis’ fifth kill, an ugly looking sort of crustacean creature which had spikes protruding from its chest. It had rendered Griffin Midnight useless before Vulpis arrived onto the scene and smashed its skull in.

“I was in Shizuoka for spare parts,” Sakusa admits. “The warehouses were by the sea. I was there when the two of you joined the clean-up and I saw you two dismount from your jaeger and wander into the city together. You were laughing.”

Osamu and he went to get a cup of green tea after they helped with the disaster zone, left Vulpis kneeling in the bay for two hours as they wandered the city. Atsumu wonders if they passed Sakusa then, two forces hurtling past each other without touching.

“That’s my job,” Atsumu says dumbly, not knowing what else to say. How long had Sakusa kept this pent up, unwilling to tell Atsumu this? Atsumu remembers the distant look in his eyes, the first night they met when Sakusa called him back. Was this why?

“I know. But not everybody is willing to do the same,” Sakusa responds, burying his hands into his hair nervously. “God, I’m too sober enough for this.”

“You drink?” Atsumu wonders. He’d never pitch uptight, stick-up-his-ass Sakusa to be a drinker.

“Only when I really need to.” Sakusa winces. “I don’t like the loss of control.”

Now that Atsumu can understand. He can imagine Sakusa who needs every calculation in his life to be perfect, like engineering a jaeger out of scraps, to not like losing control.

“I never really think about the lives I save,” Atsumu confesses. “It’s not like Samu and I had much else to live for. You know what happened to Hyogo.”

It’s true. They never found the bodies of their family, so afterwards Atsumu built his home on the ground Osamu stepped on and with Osamu it went. Osamu and he argued and fought with terrifying frequency like any other pair of siblings, but at the end of the day he was still the only person Atsumu had left.

Sakusa has his mask pulled down to his chin to eat, Atsumu finds himself appreciating this fact now when he can see a myriad of emotions pass over Sakusa’s face.

“I was five when my parents took a trip up to Hokkaido the same weekend Primallax rose from the ocean and obliterated everything in its path,” Sakusa divulges, shaking lightly in the wind. “I’ve never known another home other than the shatterdome.”

Atsumu doesn’t say I’m sorry. He wonders how times Sakusa’s had to hear the same words before like clockwork. They’re the easiest words to say to somebody when you have nothing else, but they’re also the words everybody needs to hear least.

“If life was fair we’d all live happier,” Atsumu picks up a piece of takoyaki with his wooden chopsticks, savoring the lingering warmth it brings. “Is that why you wear masks?”

Sakusa has that look again, but this time he’s looking right at Atsumu, not over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Sakusa mutters. “I went to Hokkaido when I was thirteen. There wasn’t much to salvage, so they never bothered using the land as much other than a dump for kaiju corpses after Primallax.”

“I couldn’t stand how dirty it was, the place that was essentially my parents’ grave.” Sakusa sets his chopsticks down, delicate dark wood pieces he brought from the shatterdome. “I spent hours digging without a purpose and when it began to rain I couldn’t stand how dirty I was either.”

Atsumu hands him four pieces of dango strung up on a skewer.

“Sometimes I wake up with the taste of Hokkaido dust in my mouth.” Sakusa accepts the stick from his hands. “I couldn’t stand sawdust anymore afterward.”

Sakusa looks at the skewer of dango skeptically, before taking a bite. Atsumu watches his eyes widen as he chews on the snack.

“Oh, this is really good,” Sakusa says blandly, but his eyes betray his enjoyment.

“The presence of grief doesn’t mean the absence of joy,” Atsumu recites, offering Sakusa a smile.

Sakusa looks across the table at him, flickering LED lights reflecting in his eyes. Atsumu is broken beyond Sakusa’s mechanic repair, but something in his chest clicks back into place at the soft look present on Sakusa's face.

“Yes.” Sakusa’s eyes crinkle up into a smile. Atsumu’s traitorous, traitorous heart skips a beat. “I suppose you’re right.”

Abyslios and Shihakui breach the rift simultaneously two days later and head straight for Tokyo.

Atsumu slams awake at the red alert, heart constricting in his chest until it hurt. He can hear scuttling outside his door, Bokuto and Kuroo rushing to get to the drive room.

All around, the storm rages. Atsumu climbs up the bunk and buries himself alive into Osamu’s mattress, nothing but the pittering of raindrops against his window to accompany him.

Atsumu curls underneath Osamu’s blankets, a stream of white noise ringing inside his head. He doesn’t make any move to get out for the next four hours until the alarms drop.

There are beads of cold sweat gathering at his hairline as he swipes at his phone. They’d sent out Griffin Midnight and Eagle Victory, killing Abyslios almost without much issue.

Shihakui, which had little knobs on its spine it could fucking detonate, took Eagle Victory out. Atsumu reads injured pilot and scrambles out of bed, slamming into the ground hard as he races for the med-bay.

He finds Shirabu bed-bound, with Semi sitting by his side. They both look up when he arrives, pushing open the metal door with a bang.

He knows how he must look, wild and manic light in his eyes, hair tousled and still in the clothes he slept in.

Atsumu stalks closer, takes in Shirabu’s wrapped leg and the crutches next to his bed, then he sags in relief.

“Oh,” He says, his first word since the alarms sounded. “You’re alive.”

Shirabu’s gaze turns from haughty to empathetic in a heartbeat. “Yeah, they got me good. I won’t be able to pilot for the next six months.”

“But you’re alive,” Atsumu argues. Shirabu and he were never close friends despite being the same age. Atsumu had been made a pilot a year before Shirabu, who was Ushijima’s second co-pilot, so they never really had much reason for conversation.

Shirabu turns a critical eye on him, the two of them considering each other. He reaches over to grasp Semi’s hand, pulling it into his lap. “But I’m alive.”

Atsumu has spoken maybe eleven sentences to Shirabu in his whole life before this moment, but he doesn’t think he can be more genuine when he says “I’m glad to hear that.”

“I have people to live for, Atsumu-san.” Shirabu huffs, sharp but not impolite, still holding Semi’s hand.

“That’s good,” Atsumu replies, just a little too quickly, relief still pounding through his veins.

Shirabu looks up at him, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Thank you for checking in with me, Atsumu-san. I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.” Atsumu finds himself smiling back.

He’s walking back to his room when he realises. He’s been doing it more often— smiling. Real smiles don’t seem so difficult these days.

Atsumu flips Kageyama onto the mat for the sixth time. “Six-nil. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Kageyama pants before leaping at him again. Atsumu takes the brunt of the attack, rolling to his side to trap Kageyama onto his side. It’s almost satisfying when Kageyama snarls before throwing him off, coming in hard with his fists.

Hard, but slow. Atsumu dodges before kicking with his left leg once, catching Kageyama in the stomach before throwing him to the side.

He’s got Kageyama pinned again within seconds again.

“Seven-nil. What’s with you today? You’re normally not so…” he searches for the right word. “Angry.”

“This other guy said some shit,” Kageyama says sullenly, like a petulant child. “It’s not my fault we’re more drift compatible than the guy he wants to pair up with.”

God, Atsumu misses the times when this was the type of stuff he worried about the most. He drags a hand through his sweaty hair, disengaging from the hold to offer Kageyama a water bottle.

“This isn’t high school, cut that shit out.” Atsumu laughs. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be my new co-pilot? Already looking for another partner? I’m hurt, Tobio-kun.”

Kageyama takes the bottle gratefully, chugging down mouthfuls of water.

“I’m not looking for another partner, but we have to pair up for practice or else there’s not really much point is there?” Kageyama scoffs, annoyance twisting his features. “Wish Tsukishima would shut up sometimes though. That would be nice.”

Atsumu knows this Tsukishima guy, saw his profile on the files they handed out. The kid’s from Miyagi as well, Atsumu recalls.

“You know him from before?” Atsumu prods, looking for trouble. “Aren’t cha both from Miyagi? Feels like I’m meeting lotsa people from Miyagi these days.”

“Yeah, I knew him,” Kageyama spits, staring down at the mats. “I wish we weren’t as drift compatible as we are.”

Atsumu can’t stop himself chuckling. “Yer sure you want to be a pilot? You seem happier talking to Omi-kun ‘bout the robots.”

Atsumu caught the two of them deep in conversation a week ago, notes about the new jaeger surrounding them. He had taken a quick picture with his phone until Sakusa caught him and snapped at him to delete it.

It’s still saved onto his camera roll.

Kageyama blinks like it’s the first time he’s ever considered the concept of simply not being a pilot. “But I’m a cadet,” he states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I suppose.” Atsumu is like a shark in the water, fishing for blood. “Man, I didn’t even know you could get so angry. You seemed so mysterious the first time we met, but you’re just a proper goody-two-shoes, ain'tcha?”

He has the pleasure of watching Kageyama’s face contort in several painful-looking expressions: confusion, irritation, uncertainty, irritation again.

Under his breath, Kageyama mutters “lesser of two evils” like he’s comforting himself. Atsumu throws his head back in laughter, letting his fingers squelch against the sticky mats.

“Anyways, you got nothing to worry ‘bout. We’re gonna try drifting once Omi-kun’s done with the prototype soon, yeah?” Atsumu grins now that the fun’s over.

Kageyama’s a good kid, but Atsumu has no desire to get into a jaeger with him. That’s for Osamu only, the voice in his brain yells. Only Osamu gets the luxury of knowing him inside and out.

But they’re still in a war. Atsumu is a good soldier, he knows his duty. Back to the front lines he goes.

Kageyama tilts his head curiously. Atsumu is reminded of a crow in the night, in search for tonight’s feast.

It seems like Kageyama’s spotted his meal. “But you don’t want to.”

Atsumu shrugs. Trust the kid to hit it where it hurts. “I have to.”

“Why?” Kageyama asks, ignoring the way Atsumu’s palm dig into the mats at the question.

“Cause I’m a pilot.” He shoots back at Kageyama, an echo of his previous words.

Some sort of divine understanding blooms over Kageyama’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Kageyama starts awkwardly, looking out of place.

“Don’t be,” Atsumu cuts in before he can say anymore. “Worry about yourself more. I know what to do in a drift, I won’t burden you with a pity party.”

“Keep the neural link stable,” Kageyama exhales quietly like he’s reading off the weather report. “Don’t chase the rabbit.”

“I wish it were that easy.” Atsumu smiles grimly. They’ve tried a few stimulators together without drifting and found themselves decently drift-compatible. Kageyama’s a good kid, but he’s no Osamu.

Still, he’s worth giving a shot.

Atsumu pushes himself off the mats, reaching towards the sky in a stretch. “Let’s go again.”

Kageyama takes his hand when he offers it.

“Would you let me name it if I asked?” Atsumu asks at half-past three in the morning, looking at the shatterdome’s newest jaeger.

Sakusa looks worse for wear, bags starting to weigh down his eyes. Still, he looks at the jaeger, avoiding Atsumu’s gaze.

“It’s always been yours,” Sakusa says gently, making last-minute calculations on his tablet.

Atsumu studies the jaeger. It’s a sleek, metallic thing. Thankfully it didn’t have the disgusting neon greens and yellows Sakusa seemed to be so fond of, but it sports baby blue and cornflower highlights streaking all through it.

Vulpis had these stupid fox ears on top of her head. Osamu found them ridiculously tacky while Atsumu loved them. Atsumu begged until they got fox shaped helmets as well, something that earned him Osamu’s scorn for weeks.

This is not his jaeger.

He rolls several names around his mouth, tongue stuck to the roof. He can taste ash, he thinks. It leaves a grimy aftertaste.

Javelin Primal. He tries. Titan Quicksilver, Paragon Glory. Tyrant Epitome, Oracle Infinite, Colossus Ace, Nova Stardust, Hunter Jackal.

“Harbinger Dawn,” Atsumu chooses at last. A sign of the better day just over the horizon, waiting to rise. It feels right.

Sakusa shoots him a glance out of the corner of his eyes. Atsumu watches as he enters the new name into his files without any further questions.

There’s something growing in his chest, akin to compassion. It leaves Atsumu feeling like he can’t breathe sometimes when he looks at Sakusa.

“Good luck tomorrow.” Sakusa murmurs into the dark. He hesitates, before reaching to lay a brief hand on Atsumu’s forearm.

Atsumu skin burns from where he’s been touched, even over a layer of latex gloves. Something in him is being set alight, with no stop to the scorching heat that eats at him.

He swallows hard. “Thanks.”

He gets a full eight hours of sleep that night.

Atsumu wakes up on the morning of his drift trial in a good mood.

He actually eats breakfast this morning, making a surprise appearance at the canteen on time. He sits at the same table as Hoshiumi, making snarky conversation with him. He makes a jab at Hoshiumi’s height, grinning wide as Hoshiumi spouts off as expected, sharing exasperated nods with Hirugami over the table.

He skips on his way to the drift room. He might even be whistling.

There are over six months between him and Osamu now. Osamu died somewhere around six months, two weeks, five days and eight hours ago and left Atsumu with nothing more than Atsumu, you have to—

It’s kind of funny if he thinks about it really hard. He always assumed that Osamu would live longer than him.

Ha. He thinks in retaliation. I’m the older twin now, Samu.

“You ready for this?” Atsumu asks Kageyama when he catches him in the drive room. “Last chance to back out.”

“I’d say the same for you,” Kageyama replies tersely, underlying nerves evident.

“Calm down, Tobio-kun.” Atsumu feels a familiar hunger in his stomach. It calls for Kaiju blood. “Like I said, just worry about yourself.”

He’s fine, even as they strap him into a standard-issue drivesuit. None of the shiny shit he got to wear with Osamu. Standard issue helmet without the tacky fox ears, standard-issue headset, standard-issue spinal clamp.

He’s still fine in the conn-pod of Harbinger Dawn, faintly intimate but new at the same time. Everything feels vaguely right and wrong at the same time, like he’s the right pilot in the wrong jaeger, or the wrong pilot in the right jaeger.

It’s like learning to use a limb again, except you think you’re walking again but then you realise that you never had the limb to begin with.

He told Dr. Kita that once. Now, he thinks he might be about to take a step forward.

Kageyama is distinctly nervous next to him as they attach themselves to the rig. Atsumu rolls a shoulder out.

“We’re in the real shit now, Tobio-kun.” His last words are, “Somebody’s gotta shovel it.”

Kageyama wrinkles his nose in disgust, and then he hears LOCCENT counting down.

“Commencing neural handshake in ten—” the metallic voice blares. Atsumu takes a deep breath, exhales with the entire force of his lungs, and then he is seeing, seeing—

Miyagi. Volleyball. A loving grandfather and an ambitious sister. A boy with bright orange hair, reaching an inviting hand out.

Kageyama’s mind flashes in fragments, too fast for Atsumu to catch onto. Atsumu inhales and he is back in the conn-pod, blinking Kageyama’s memories out of his eyes.

“Neural link, stabilising.”

“Right hemisphere, calibrated,” he calls, waiting for Kageyama to do the same.

Except Kageyama is breathing weirdly, eyes wide as he clutches his head. His panting is causing perspiration on the inside of his helmet, fogging up his visor.

Oh, fuck.

“Tobio-kun?” Atsumu asks, fighting panic. Kageyama doesn’t even acknowledge him.

“Kageyama,” he snaps. “Do not chase the rabbit. Don’t you dare chase the rabbit.”

Kageyama gasps, eyes becoming clear for a moment. Then he chases the rabbit.

Atsumu is dragged into his memories helplessly, dragged into Miyagi and sunshine-filled days of lazy happiness.

There is the orange-haired boy, with a smile brighter than the sun. He is beaming at them, megawatt beauty in his imperfect scattering of freckles. Kageyama smiles back.

They are running, shouting, playing through the streets. The boy has a bright red bicycle he pedals to school on every day, where they would play volleyball in the gym.

Kageyama steps in one smooth motion into a set, the ball leaving the tip of his fingers in a graceful arc. Atsumu is stunned by his precision. Osamu and he never had enough time to dedicate to volleyball, the present they had gotten as children buried with the rest of their family.

Kageyama sets like he lives to do so. The orange-haired boy blurs into the edge of his vision and jumps. For a moment, Atsumu thinks he is taking flight in motion towards the sky.

The boy’s hand whizzes forward and slams into the ball with a satisfying smack, cutting a straight line into the opposite court. Kageyama exhales.

Atsumu makes a correction: Kageyama sets like he lives to do so for this boy.

“Tobio-kun,” he tries to say, garbled in the weight of Kageyama’s memories. “Wake up. This isn’t real.”

Kageyama walks past him without even noticing him and then he is older and Miyagi is in ruins. Miyagi is in ruins and everything is burning. Iwate is flattened along with half of Miyagi and everything is burning.

Kageyama screams a name into the empty battlefield left behind, one Atsumu cannot hear. Kageyama screams and screams and screams and Atsumu understands in that instant. The boy is dead.

“Tobio-kun,” he tries again, desperate to reach Kageyama. “Please, come back. This isn’t real.”

Somebody yells something over the headset and then they are disconnected, separate entities once more.

Atsumu detaches himself from the rig, switching his headset onto silent. They can still hear them speak over the radios in the cockpit, but at least he doesn’t have to hear LOCCENT anymore.

He fumbles with Kageyama’s rig until he comes loose, collapsing wordlessly into Atsumu’s arms. He wonders if this is how Osamu felt, trying to save Atsumu’s life in the face of Namikira.

Atsumu pulls Kageyama’s helmet off his head, watches color return to Kageyama’s face. He doesn’t remember ever being this green, physically or metaphorically. Osamu and he knew each other so well that drifting was practically second nature. The first time they drifted Atsumu barely felt any different. Now? He feels different.

Kageyama is not Osamu.

“It’s okay,” he says, smoothing Kageyama’s sweat-slick hair back. “We can start again.”

Even as he says this he knows it’s a lie. Five minutes in a one-sided drift with Kageyama makes him want to throw the hard-earned contents of his stomach back up. He doubts Kageyama had even seen any of his memories but he knows he doesn’t want Kageyama to, doesn’t want anybody to.

He feels like an anchor dropped into the middle of the ocean, sinking and sinking deeper. The cosmic rules of the universe tell him he’s unable to float, so Atsumu just keeps on sinking. He feels like an anchor in an ocean without a bottom, a paradox doomed to sink forever.

He can’t do this. Kageyama is a good kid but he is not Osamu and Atsumu has to stop treating him like Osamu. He can't let Kageyama into his mind, he just can't.

“Did you see?” Kageyama pants out in between rapid breaths.

“Yes,” Atsumu says, without a shred of pity. Kageyama deserves better. “Everything.”

They stumble out of the conn-pod, Atsumu supporting Kageyama’s weight. They rush Kageyama off to the med bay for a check-up. Through the glass of the control room, Atsumu can see Marshal Foster looking away with disappointment.

The workers buzz around him like bees, removing the spinal clamp and stripping him of the drivesuit. None of them say anything to Atsumu, leaving him alone with his demons.

Atsumu stands in the drive room long after they’re gone, staring at nothing.

“Atsumu.” He feels more than hears. Sakusa almost looks worried in the harsh light, face mask unable to hide his concern.

“Omi-kun.” Every word feels like lead on his tongue. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Sakusa makes a faint noise of confusion. He has pretty eyelashes, Atsumu notes.

“Drifting. Piloting,” Atsumu says, steadying himself on the wall. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“Okay, Atsumu.” Sakusa’s voice is breathtakingly understanding. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” Atsumu feels like the misplaced last piece in the jigsaw puzzle, the piece that only has one place to fit in and somehow you still manage to get the direction wrong.

Sakusa shakes his head, shushing him. They don’t say any more words and Sakusa walks Atsumu all the way back to his room.

Somebody is always watching. God is around us in every living thing. Atsumu recalls to himself, standing alone in his room with the ghost of his dead brother.

What is a god without a purpose?

“What do I have to do, Samu?” he asks an empty room. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

Miraculously, the fox trinket by the window chimes lightly despite the lack of wind. Atsumu stares at it, thinks of Hyogo and home and family. He laughs without sound.

God is always watching over us.

“Thanks for watching, Samu.” Atsumu’s chest feels strangely light. “It’s not so bad when you’ve got my back.”

Atsumu doesn’t want to pilot anymore, physically can’t bring himself to do it anymore. But there are other things he can do. He can still fight like a beast in the ring and he can still talk his way out of almost every situation. He can hold a decent conversation about jaegers when asked and he’s seen the anatomy of a kaiju up closer than most people can say.

Atsumu drags the box of Osamu’s belongings out of the corner of their room, ripping the tape as he goes. He digs past the notebooks, past the sweater. He palms Osamu’s phone in his hands, tapping in the password he’s got memorised.

Osamu’s homescreen is still that cheesy picture of the two of them bickering in front of Vulpis. Atsumu runs his eyes over Osamu's profile, committing the expression on his face to memory. Osamu looks appropriately annoyed, about to slam a fist into Atsumu's arm, but still, his eyes are impossibly fond. Atsumu’s heart constricts in his chest tightly.

“Night, Samu.” He turns the phone off, watching the screen fade to black, taking the picture with it. He picks up the other fox charm from the bottom of the box. He thinks it might look good on the other side of the window, a matching pair to its twin. “Sleep well.”

A hundred and ninety-three days after his brother died, Atsumu has this dream.

In this dream, he is back in the familiar conn-pod of Vulpis Empress and the red alert has just been triggered. In this dream there are howling winds all around him, whipping his hair into his eyes from the crack in his helmet. In this dream he is staring straight into Namikira’s dead, grotesque eyes and he is reaching across the meter wide chasm of the control system to grasp his brother’s hand.

In this dream, he is not Atsumu, but Osamu. He is Osamu and he is ripping the wires out of his spine and there is blood dripping down his face. He is Osamu and he has to make sure his brother gets out of this shitshow alive.

“LOCCENT, do you copy? LOCCENT! Fuck, we’re not going to make it,” he hears himself scream. “Atsumu!”

He is sliding down from the silver and gold cockpit, righting himself against the right wall when Namikira rocks their jaeger again. “Atsumu!” he is screeching. “Come on!”

He’s scared shitless. There is panic settling deep into his chest. He’s so, so terrified.

Atsumu isn’t moving, hanging limply in his side of the rig. Red lights are blaring in his eyes and rendering him half-blind as he catches his fingers against a sharp piece of debris, tearing through his gloves. Why isn’t he moving?

He’s scrambling across their conn-pod, fighting turbulence and gravity to reach his brother. His wet fingers leave shiny streaks down Atsumu’s gray drivesuit as he digs under the latch of the helmet to disengage it.

And then he is looking at himself.

His breathing is funny, quick breaths that come one after another. He looks at his reflection in his eyes and can’t tell what hair color he has. Silver? Gold?

He blinks and he is Atsumu, shakily detaching himself from the rig.

“Are you alright?” Osamu is asking him.

“Left leg, twisted,” he says. “We’ve gotta go.”

Namikira rears back and slams home into their jaeger’s core again, and when he gets up on shaky feet his hair is silver.

His brother is winded next to him, so he loops an arm around Atsumu and starts limping towards the escape pod. There’s a sinking fear in his mind, one that registers once he realises which part of the cockpit Namikira, that fucker, has torn out.

“Samu, Osamu,” Atsumu blabbers mindlessly. “Fuck, Osamu.”

He makes his decision then.

He activates his headset from the side of his helmet. Fuck, why didn’t he take off his helmet? He can’t breathe.

“This is Vulpis Empress pilot Miya Osamu, requesting retrieval access immediately. We need to eject.”

There’s buzzing in his ear, giving him useless information he already knows. In the chatter of white noise, he hears the word mission. Under his arm, Atsumu begins to stir.

“The current mission is keeping my brother alive, fuck you all.” He’s snarling into his mic and unlocking their one remaining escape pod.

He’s strapped Atsumu into the pod when his brother snaps back to reality.

No. He hears, more in his mind than out loud. Samu, stop. Osamu, don’t do this. Osamu, Osamu, Osamu-

“Tell Rintarou I love him. I’m so fucking sorry, Atsumu,” he is saying, and then he is Atsumu, staring into his brother’s wide, terrified eyes and they shouldn’t look so scared. Osamu doesn’t get to look like that, Atsumu is the one who gets scared easily.

His brother is yelling at him, and this is the part where this dream usually cuts off, sound fading away from his ears like Atsumu is the one twenty feet down into the ocean instead, cut away abruptly like Osamu’s last words.

Tonight, he claws at the closing doors of the escape pod and suddenly he is Osamu again, and oh, this has never happened before.

“Tsumu, I love you. Atsumu, you have to—”

A hundred and ninety-four days after his brother died, Atsumu wakes up from this dream.

Live. Atsumu, you have to live.

Osamu’s voice rings in his ears, his brother’s last message finally complete.

“Osamu,” he says, to an empty room, to their empty room. “Samu.”

As dawn breaks over the horizon of the hundred and ninety-fourth day since his brother’s death, Atsumu stumbles out of bed, breath uneven and heavy. Osamu would have complained about waking him up by now, always the light sleeper. Or perhaps he would have slipped under the covers hours ago, the two of them against the world in the bottom bunk of their shitty standard-issue bed.

Osamu is dead, but Atsumu has to live.

“Fuck you, you punk. Who do you think you are, ordering me around?” Atsumu whispers into the silence, gaining traction as he goes on. “I’m gonna prove you wrong, Samu. I’m not just going to live, I’m going to thrive. I’m going to be the best at fucking living there ever was, just you wait and see, you jerk.”

Tsumu, I love you. Silence settles so wrongly in their room. Osamu was never quiet, even when he didn’t speak his presence was always so loud to Atsumu, in the training regime he still has tacked up on the wall above the desk, or in the second yoga mat in the corner of their room, or in that fucking crack on the ceiling. Atsumu, you have to live.

Atsumu stalks across the room, stopping before the window. Their fox shaped trinkets Osamu and he dug up from the rubble that became the graves of their family are still carefully fastened to the upper rung of the protective bars.

They chime brightly when Atsumu throws open his blinds and enjoys the pale light of sunrise once again in a promise of the future.

The same morning, Atsumu is a force unto himself.

He finds Kageyama in the training room, explains to him that he thought Kageyama was a good person and all, but he just couldn’t do it.

Kageyama nods in that perceptive way of his, an apology on the tip of his tongue.

“None of that, Tobio-kun,” Atsumu tuts. “It’s nothing personal, really. Don’t blame yourself, Harbinger Dawn is still yours.”

War has changed all of them, but perhaps it is only in war can one truly appreciate innocence. Kageyama looks at him, innocence gleaming in his gaze, with just a hint of childish wisdom.

“Atsumu-san,” Kageyama asks hesitantly as Atsumu turns to leave. “What did you mean when you called me a goody-two-shoes?”

“Have you been stuck on that?” Atsumu guffaws, the exchange half-forgotten already.

“I meant just that.” Kageyama is going to go on to become a great pilot one day, Atsumu decides. “You’re serious and honest, an all-around good kid. Nothing more to it.”

That afternoon, Atsumu becomes a disaster in the making, a hurricane blazing his way to the marshal’s office. People around him take one glance and run for their lives.

Ever since the disastrous drift trial two weeks ago the office has been sending him incessant letters about trying again. Now, he takes these letters and slams them onto the Marshal’s desk.

“I think we’re overdue for a talk.” He smiles sickly sweet to the marshal. Samson Foster is a good man who doesn’t deserve his fury, but he’s the closest to authority you can find around these parts so he’ll have to do.

“Atsumu,” Samson sighs. He’s probably developing a headache right now as they speak, Atsumu has that sort of effect.

“You can tell the PPDC I’m not going to pilot anymore,” Atsumu states without room for question.

“Atsumu, please,” Foster says tiredly.

“No,” Atsumu refutes. The objection has been seen by the judge and hereby rejected, court over.

Foster is a good man who piloted one of the first jaegers, first looked death in the face and spat back at it. He looks at Atsumu now like he would a kaiju, assessing his chances for success.

“I’ll help you train them,” Atsumu bulldozes on. “I will personally handpick your next pilots and the pilots after that. I don’t need to get into a jaeger to be able to fight.”

Foster studies him for any sort of hesitation, any sort of weakness. He’s a smart man, he knows when a battle is lost.

“Okay,” he concedes. Good man indeed. “Welcome to the shatterdome, fightmaster.”

Atsumu smiles, the kind that promises mercy.

“I look forward to working with you, Marshal.” He grins as the future unfolds in front of him.

He finds Sakusa in the jaeger bay, staring up at Harbinger Dawn in the garage like a messiah, head bowed in reverence.

“Omi-kun,” he calls softly, watching Sakusa turn to him.

“I told the marshal I don’t want to pilot anymore.” Atsumu scuffs the ground with his shoe. “It’s done.”

“Congratulations.” Sakusa’s voice is a wispy thing, floating away in the buzz of the jaeger room.

Atsumu looks at Sakusa and sees the future, sees what could be, what they could be.

Something jumps out of the drift to him, something Osamu once said.

Home is the people you build it with, not the place you build it on.

“Omi-kun,” he starts. “Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa’s eyes are dark but endlessly kind. Something between Atsumu’s ribs clicks into place, something that has wings and is ready to take flight.

Tsumu, I love you. He thinks. Atsumu, you have to live.

“I like you,” Atsumu confesses, taking the first step forward to living fearlessly. He has to live, for Osamu, for himself. “Go out with me.”

The edges of Sakusa’s eyes tilt upwards. He might even be smiling underneath the mask. Atsumu has never seen anybody so beautiful.

“Okay,” Sakusa says in lieu of a rejection. “I’d like that.”

Atsumu reaches out a hand. The winged creature in his chest soars when Sakusa takes it.

In Dr. Kita’s office, Atsumu smiles at the man over pickled plums with a warm cup of tea.

“I still see him in my dreams sometimes. But it’s not every dream now,” Atsumu says, leaning back into the chair.

“What is he doing in those dreams?” Dr. Kita asks, patient as ever.

“Swimming,” Atsumu replies truthfully. Sometimes he dreams of the sharp line of Osamu’s back cutting through the water, plunging headfirst into each oncoming wave.

“Always?” Dr. Kita asks, setting his notebook aside.

“Not always,” Atsumu answers, looking at the clock on the wall. “Sometimes he’s taking a nap. Sometimes he’s playing volleyball. Sometimes we’re eating ice cream or drinking a hot cup of green tea after a successful kaiju kill.”

Dr. Kita looks pleased with him over the rim of his cup. Neither of them are human, but Atsumu thinks they both do a pretty good job of sufficing.

“That’s good to hear.” Dr. Kita takes a sip out of his cup.

They talk about the weather, about the cadets Atsumu is training these days, about the new blends of tea Kita-san is getting from stocks. Atsumu thinks they can be good friends in the future, proper friends.

The clock signals the end of the hour, faithfully ticking back to the top of the clock. Atsumu moves forward.

“I don’t think this needs to be mandatory anymore,” Dr. Kita walks him to the exit. “But I’ll see you next week?”

“Same time same place,” Atsumu jokes.

“You asked me this once,” He brings up by the door. “What is a god without a purpose?”

Dr. Kita hums. “Have you found a purpose?”

Atsumu smiles, wide and real. He thinks of sweaty afternoons in the combat room, teaching cadets how to survive. He thinks of warm meals in the mess hall, laughing with Kuroo and Bokuto and Hoshiumi. He thinks of quiet nights lying in Sakusa’s bed, pinkies hooked together in silent understanding, something blooming between them that is starting to feel like love.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m going to live.”

The control room is bustling with activity, readying itself for the first drift between two new pilots.

Atsumu stops Kageyama in front of the drive room, his face breaking out into relief once he spots Atsumu.

Kageyama’s co-pilot follows behind, sullen-looking. Tsukishima is an ass of a kid, one who Atsumu took great joy in kicking some sense into. Literally, aggressively into the mats.

“Tobio-kun!” he singsongs, slinging an arm around Kageyama’s shoulders. “Good luck today!”

Kageyama looks embarrassed at the attention, at the commotion that Atsumu’s causing. People are starting to look in their direction, curious as to what’s going on. Atsumu relishes in Kageyama’s squirming, jostling the boy under his arm.

“Tsukishima,” he barks over Kageyama’s shoulder, delighting in the way the kid’s head snaps towards him, attentive.

“Take care of this one, yeah?” Atsumu shakes Kageyama lightly. “I won’t forgive ya if you don’t bring him back in one piece.”

Tsukishima growls under his breath and disappears into the drive room as Atsumu howls in laughter.

“Atsumu-san,” Kageyama begins to apologise.

Atsumu punches him on the shoulder lightly.

“Stop apologising, Tobio-kun. I’m happier out here.” Atsumu tidies Kageyama’s collar, fixing it back into place.

“I have to go, Atsumu-san.” Kageyama gestures towards the drive room. “Besides, you have somebody waiting for you.”

Atsumu turns his head to look at Sakusa at the other end of the corridor, impatiently tapping his feet. He looks gorgeous even in the shitty lighting, neon green jumpsuit notwithstanding, waiting for Atsumu.

“Go on,” Atsumu grins, giving Kageyama a light push.

“Tobio-kun,” he calls after Kageyama’s retreating back. Kageyama twists his head back to look towards him. “What was his name?”

Kageyama takes a deep breath, biting his lip.

“Hinata,” he gives at last. “His name was Hinata Shouyou.”

Atsumu falters briefly, thinking of a girl with orange hair lost in a festival.

Did Hinata have a sister? He starts to ask, the words stuck in his throat.

There’s no point in ruining Kageyama’s big day, he decides. Instead, he says “He seems like a good person.”

Somewhere out there, Hinata is probably watching over them now. Atsumu wonders if he would get along with Osamu.

Kageyama smiles, a small, tentative thing that promises hope.

“He is,” Kageyama replies. Then he walks towards his jaeger to a better future.

Atsumu watches him go, affection tugging at him before turning to skip down the hallway to Sakusa’s side, bouncing like a little kid.

Carefully, he allows their shoulders to brush. The side of Sakusa’s mouth quirks up into a smile.

“Let’s go into the city,” Atsumu says. “I’m in the mood for good onigiri right now.”

“I got your texts last night, did you not sleep well?” Sakusa asks, already leading them towards the exit despite his underlying worry. “We don’t have to go out if you’re tired.”

Atsumu shakes his head, thinks fuck it before reaching to link their pinkies together. Sakusa lets their hands dangle awkwardly between them, not making any move to get closer, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Yesterday’s gone, Omi-kun.” He beams. “So what’re we gonna do today?”

Atsumu’s birthday comes and passes in a blur.

He spends the morning with the shatterdome, celebrating with them. He has lunch with Suna, laughing over the newest gossip. In the afternoon, he brings Sakusa to Osamu’s grave with a fresh bouquet of foxgloves. Osamu would enjoy the irony.

“Hey Samu.” He grins. “This is Kiyoomi. You probably wouldn’t believe it, but somehow this guy’s my boyfriend.”

“He’s a bit of an asshole.” Atsumu ignores the offended noise Sakusa makes, arranging the flowers around the grave. “But I think you’d like him. I think you’d really like him.”

Sakusa lays a hand on top of his and no words need to be said anymore.

Eleven months after his brother died, Atsumu curls up in the bottom bunk of their bed on their birthday night and has a dream.

Osamu is in this dream and they are nineteen again, looking over the Tokyo harbor at the ocean with its monsters hiding beneath the surface. Their feet dangle over the edge of the balcony, one leap of faith away from death. They just killed their first kaiju and nothing in the world is quite right.

“I think home is the people you build it with,” Osamu says. “Not the place you build it on.”

He’s right, of course, Osamu is rarely wrong. Atsumu once built a home with Osamu and now he is building more with other people.

“That’s what living is, isn’t it, Samu?” Atsumu feels the beginning of a grin come onto his face. “Building homes.”

Osamu glances at him and he looks like he did on the night he died, on the wrong side of twenty and infinitely older. Osamu stands up, taking a step forward, and they are at the edge of the Tokyo shore, the water lapping at their feet.

Atsumu stands on the wet sand, watching Osamu walk away into the ocean.

Knee-deep into the water, Osamu turns back and smiles at Atsumu, familiar and fond.

Atsumu smiles back.